Suburban Knights: The Novelization
by Xoanon
Summary: Almost one year has passed since Kickassia. The TGWTG Team, battered, bruised and annoyed, no longer cares about what occurred there. A great evil is coming, one that wishes to destroy them and their entire world, and they must band together to defeat it. The time has come to reforge the fellowship. The time for heroism is now. Rated A for awesome.
1. Prologue

**Prologue: The Beginning is the Best Place to Start**

The white car sped down the deserted roadway. Around it, the empty countryside stretched to the horizon in an unbroken swathe of fallow soil, ringed by telephone wires and broken only by the occasional lopsided farmhouse or grove of ailing trees. It was an overcast day. A wall of dark clouds stretched across the sky from end to end, reducing the sun's light to a sickly pallor that was tossed dully over the landscape. Outside the wind howled endlessly—the same as it always did whenever it wasn't helping to produce hailstones the size of SUVs—and it brought with it a shuddering cold that lashed at one's soul endlessly, almost to the point of its total and irreversible erosion. All in all, it was a lovely spring day in Wisconsin.

The car had just passed through Racine, and was now ambling towards the border with Illinois that still lay a good twenty-five miles to the south. Its driver, a young man consistently referred to as "self-employed" and "unremarkably dull", was far less than occupied with his destination at that moment; he was too busy adjusting the Navman strapped to the dashboard. As he grappled endlessly with the infinitely simple, yet frustratingly baffling input commands for the GPS system with one hand, he worked the knob on the car's radio with the other. Simultaneously, he also managed to scrounge bites from a half-eaten pizza bagel perched at his shoulder and adjust the air conditioning with his right shin. He drove with a single knee positioned at the bottom of the wheel, the leg underneath it working both the gas and brakes. He was doing at least fifty-five miles per hour on average.

As he drove, he made sure to keep at least one eye on the road ahead. It fanned out ahead of him, a tired grey ribbon of asphalt trekking ever onwards to some undisclosed destination, overlapping with hundreds of other roads all with their own paths to their own faraway places. They had many sizes; small, two-lane streets to wide avenues to highways supported by megalithic pillars. They travelled very far, crossing hundreds of acres, branching and dividing like veins and arteries in the circulatory system of some gigantic beast made of steel and concrete. They rode into verdant prairielands, along impermanent coastlines, through forests planted long ago. And on their way they passed through thousands of towns, cities, villages and municipalities, the tendrils of an urban blight spread like creeper vine along the roadways, expanding, multiplying, and consuming onwards across every landmass on the entire planet, forever.

The driver saw a road sign: ANIMAL XING. On it was a small stylized picture of a cow. Beneath it, someone had crudely stenciled in a large brown turd. He sniggered soundlessly and continued on. By now, the Navman had been programmed, and the radio had been tuned to 102.7 WKEP in Kenosha (all the greatest sounds of the 80s, 90s and today). He put both hands back on the wheel, his head now bobbing in time with Metallica's "The Day That Never Comes".

Suddenly, he noticed that there was another traveler present on the road, and for the first time that day it wasn't another car speeding at him in the opposite-bound lane, honking furiously and swerving out of his path. It was just a simple hitchhiker, a dark-looking man standing on the side of the road near the drainage ditch. He slowed down slightly, hoping to get a better look at what appeared to be one righteous-looking dude.

He certainly was. The man was tall and lean, with brown skin and curls of hair that would make Samson himself blindingly jealous if he were ever to look upon them. He was garbed entirely in black, wearing a well-worn coat made of leather, a tunic, chinos and a fedora. He wore dark sunglasses, the lenses hiding his eyes completely from what little sunlight there was outside. He stood bow-legged against the wind in an odd stance, head bowed and legs arched apart and his feet pointed directly at the road. His face was expressionless; there was no sign of discomfort from the cold, no reaction towards the vehicle slowing to a stop. He carried a walking staff made of what looked like ebony, which he held at one side in a grip of iron. He made no effort to approach the car that was now idling in front of him. The man in the car rolled down the window.

"Hey, buddy!" he shouted. "Need a lift?"

At this, the man by the ditch seemed to awaken. He lifted his head slightly, eyeless face now staring into the car's cabin. He made no other movements. He appeared to have heard and understood the words spoken by the man in the car, but still he had no reaction other than to stare blankly at the car—at the figure inside the car—and nothing else.

"Uh… dude?" the man in the car repeated uncertainly. "You need a ride or what?"

The figure moved swiftly forward. He crossed over the threshold of the road in two steps, stopping abruptly in front of the side passenger door. As his staff struck the asphalt for the first time it made an odd-sounding, echoing thunk, almost as if it had been constructed out of reinforced steel instead of petrified wood. The stranger looked up and down the length of the car a few times, as if he were taking it in and judging its body, make, model, and color all at once. Finally, he looked back into the cabin and spoke:

"In this?" he asked. His tone was strangely inflected, almost questioning, as if he would have refused the ride had there been a better offer available to him at the time.

The man in the car laughed. "Cha, yeah dude. Unless you can pull, like, a plane out of your pocket or something."

"Although seriously, that would be awesome," he added, nodding his head at the seeming thought of something so preposterous. The man outside didn't laugh or smile at this remark, though he did exude a heavy sigh and shook his head dismissively. He moved forward and unlocked the door, sliding slowly into the passenger seat almost as if he were slipping into a bathtub filled to the brim with something unpleasant. When he was fully seated and belted he turned to the driver. He said nothing, though his general demeanor was slowly and sternly speaking the phrase "Well? You're driving." The driver, instead of complying, was calmly looking over his new companion, and with great approval he began to nod his head again.

"Really dig the getup, man," he complemented. "It's really got that… thing to it."

"What thing?" the man in the getup asked.

"…Y'know, that thing, man." The driver replied, after a longer-than-is-normally-expected-in-conversation pause. "Y'know, it's got that whole _Matrix _meets _Matrix Reloaded_ deal going on. You know, the _Matrixes_, with the robots and kung-fu and fighting and stuff? Totally awesome. You ever seen those movies, man?"

The man in the passenger seat didn't respond.

"That's deep man, really deep…" the driver replied, head still nodding up and down like a bobble-head figurine. "So where you headed?"

The man turned to face the road.

"Chicago." He intoned solemnly. "I'm going to Chicago."

"Chicago!" the driver repeated. "Chicago! Chi-town, The Big Apple, The Windy City! Nice place to visit, man; shouldn't be too far out of the way! Just let me program it into my GPS and we'll get going!"

He grabbed the Navman once again and began thumbing through its myriad menu screens, all the while continuing to babble on at his newfound attendant. The man in the passenger seat, pretending politely to listen, sat back and waited for the car to begin moving. All the while, his protected eyes began to roam around the cabin; they were drawn almost immediately to the dashboard and the car's polished, ornate instruments.

"Sorry 'bout this, man. It might take a while to get this bloody thing to work!" the driver laughed, ignoring his companion's agitation. "Okay, lemeesee—according to this it should be about two… thousand miles? Huh, that's a little high…"

The man in the passenger seat ogled the controls of the console, along with the numerous possessions of the driver that lay scattered all over the dash: the AC unit—hot and cold on demand in varying quantities, buttons with unidentifiable symbols, switches for heated seats, knobs controlling the stereo, the radio, the volume, bass, treble and balance. There was a Nintendo DS, an iPhone plugged into the cigarette lighter, various game cartridges crammed into compartments, a Furby toy seated next to him on the armrest…

"Hang on, hang on—I can fix this, I got it, don't tell me… Nooo, I do not want to go to Lake Okeechobee! Stupid Navman. My mom always told me 'there's only so many times one guy can drive into a lake.' Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me five times, shame on the GPS…"

…It was all metallic and chrome, every bit of it was sleek and streaming, flooding the car and overlapping it endlessly. Redundant gadgets, gewgaws and trivialities were all piled haphazardly on top of each other with no rhyme or reason. Underneath the plastic and laminated wood of the dashboard there were the heavy metals and computer components of the stereo system. Under that lay the metal framework of the car and the engine: sparkplug, cylinders, carbonator and solenoid. All metal, all manufactured. The upholstery in the car wasn't real, it was faux-leather. The seatbelt that constrained him was composed of nylon fibers; pure fiction. He was trapped in a cage, a cage made by the grace of machinery and lies. He hated every square inch of it. He wanted it all to burn…

"Awesome! I think I got it! So what part of Chicago are you going to?"

The man in the passenger seat leaned over the center console slightly. He looked down at the Navman in the driver's hand. It was a newer model, made of more gleaming chrome, and covered in countless buttons that served no purpose discernible to him. Its display was riddled in confusing codes, ciphers and stand-ins, a roadmap bastardized to fit on a computer screen. They were both sitting in a blinking triangle encircled in a sheath; the roadway was a vibrant, sickening orange. The display announced the current time, the destination, the distance left to travel, the calculated time necessary to make the journey, the current weather, the wind speed. It was the warden of this penitentiary, keeping its prisoner sedated and well-occupied in a haze of false security and ignorance of the road ahead. It was nothing, and it served no true purpose other than to distract and annoy.

He looked up at the driver. "You're using that?" he asked again, disgust creeping into his voice. The driver didn't notice. He looked down at his master quizzically, as if asking what he should do next.

"Well… yeah, dude." He responded, looking up again after another pause. "It's my Nav-thingy! It gets me where I need to go, man!"

"Don't."

"Uh… why not?" the driver asked.

The passenger turned back to face the road again. "Just don't."

"Dude, I wasn't just joshing you earlier," the driver replied. "I get everywhere with this thing. Seriously, I'd totally get lost without it!"

"How do you know? How are you so sure that without your blinking marvel you would utterly lose your way? Can you drive without it? Have you ever tried?"

"…Wha?"

"It's bad enough that you have to imprison yourself within this technological death trap, but now you sacrifice your own sense of direction? Your intuition?" The passenger had begun speaking in a slightly different tone of voice now, one that was more sinister and much more dangerous. "Your means of travel are determined by wires and electric highways, circuitry born of an automated heartlessness, destined for destruction. You make no decisions for yourself. You hand over everything to these mechanical wonders and, for all their digital prestidigitation, you become no wiser for it. You enter this world empty, and you will leave this world… _empty._"

He ended his diatribe on that word, in a low and almost hissing whisper. The driver, having been struck dumbfounded during this calm outburst, began to reluctantly wish he'd continued to drive on rather than stop. Wisconsin was a really weird state to pick up hitchhikers in, he'd decided.

"Dude… did I say something wrong?" he asked gingerly. "Like, did a Navman kill your dad or something? I can drive without it if you want—"

"What is your name," the passenger asked suddenly, turning back to the driver with frightening speed. "Mister…?"

"Bill."

"Bill. What year is this?"

"Uh, 2011…"

"In what century?"

"The 20th… uh, I think. No, sorry. 21st."

The passenger turned back towards the roadway. "What do you think of the 21st century, Bill?"

"Ah, it's alright. I mean, we've got like no jobs, those bummer wars in Iraq and Afganaland, and Gaga's kinda weird and all, but still I think it's pretty solid. Plus we totally got a black guy for a president!"

"Up top." Bill coolly raised a hand primed for a "solid" fist pounding. The passenger refused to return the gesture, and dejectedly Bill lowered it again.

"So you enjoy it?" the passenger asked.

"Yeah, totally." Bill responded happily.

"Would you swear by it?"

"Sure!"

"Would you give up everything you own for it?"

"That… doesn't make much sense. Like, everything I _own_ is in the 21st century, man."

"No, no it isn't. There's one other thing that you own that the 21st century hasn't given you, and it can be taken away very, very easily. Do you want it taken away…"

The passenger turned back to the driver. "…Bill?"

Bill thought about that statement for a long while. In his head, gears were turning, thoughts were being thought, and an answer was slowly being formulated. His face had taken on the qualities of a philosopher. All his brainpower had now been focused on this new task of figuring out the one thing the 21st century hadn't bestowed upon him that could be taken away very easily. All the while, the passenger waited patiently for a response. And finally, after several seconds, he received one:

"…That is a wicked awesome brainteaser, man!" Bill guffawed. "How did you come up with that anyway? It's so deep! Like, 'what is the one thing you've been given that can be taken away easily'. Dude, what are you on, 'cause I totally want some!"

Half a millisecond later, the contents of Bill's head were splattered all over the interior of the car's cabin. The gore coated everything, from the upholstery to the windows, from the dashboard to the numerous gadgets that coated it. Bill's now headless body slumped over in the seat, the nylon seatbelt just keeping it from touching the steering wheel. The passenger had been left untouched by the explosion. His clothes and face were still spotless. A single finger pointed at the spot where Bill's head had been, one that crackled with the tiny purple fragments of an indiscernible energy. The passenger lowered his hand as the glow quickly subsided. He unlocked the seatbelt, opened the car door and stepped back out into the cold.

The wind was roaring now, and it sped across the empty fields in great gusts. They buffeted the now driverless car, rocking it gently on its wheels as the stranger shut the door. Slowly, he began to walk southward down the road. He felt no remorse for what had just occurred. The man had been a slave to technology since birth, his mind desiccated, his soul utterly poisoned by its empty promises. He had chosen his fate long ago, to succumb to the monstrous cancer that had consumed almost the entire world. There were those who still resisted it—precious few. And they lived their lives as outcasts just like him. It did not matter; he did not need their help for this reversal, nor the aid of any who used the hulking, mechanical crutches that stalked the desolate thoroughfares and byways of this crumbling ruin of a nation. He would walk to Chicago.

Suddenly, he paused on the side of the road. An alarming thought had entered his head. The car—it was best that the car be disposed of. Chances were, even a pathetic specimin such as "Bill" would be missed by someone. There was no need to get the authorities involved in his dealings.

He turned on his heel and pointed a hand at the hood. The engine block underneath instantly burst into flames, spewing gobs of molten metal and bits of wire everywhere. The conflagration spread onto and over the framework until the entire car was completely consumed. It was a strange fire, one that burned quickly and gave off no caustic smoke or flares. The car's chassis snapped, its metal rusting and oxidizing into nothing under some strange ailment. The glass in its windows broke down into sand and blew away on the wind, the rubber tires leaked away. All the computerized toys and trivialities, everything the late Bill had once coveted, were lost in the blaze. Within a minute, the car had crumpled to nothing, leaving nothing where it had once sat. The stranger lowered his hand and walked on.

And far to the south in Chicago, his long-lost prize awaited him.

* * *

**Channel Awesome Presents**

**A That Guy with the Glasses Production**

**A fanfiction adaptation by somebody you've never heard of**

**The Nostalgia Critic and the TGWTG Team**

**In:**

**Suburban Knights: The Novelization**

**…**

**That's right, we're doing this again.**

**…**

**Deal with it.**

* * *

**Author's Notes:** You guys thought I forgot about this, didn't you?

Welcome to the novelization of _Suburban Knights_. Apologies if the introduction is so wordy, but there was a lot going on in that first little scene. You'll probably be seeing a lot more introspection whenever tall, dark and homicidal shows up.

Anyway, this is going to be a long one, so I'm planning to release multiple chapters per week until I can get on a more reasonable schedule. Writing is mostly finished, so editing is the main goal here, and considering its length it's going to be taking up a good chunk of my schedule for most of the summer. I can do updates in-between my summer job and whatever my family needs doing. I'll be heading to university this fall; just in time for the Year Four novelization... maybe.

Hope you guys like this year's offering. Thanks for reading.

-Xoanon


	2. Part 1, Chapter 1

**Part 1: The Set-uppening**

**Chapter 1: You May Already Be a Sucker**

Joseph "Angry Joe" Vargas was immensely, incalculably, incredibly happy to be in Illinois at that particular moment in time, and it showed. He walked—hell, he _strutted_—down Naperville's side streets with a noticeable spring in his step and a huge manic grin plastered all over his mustachioed face. Every person he met he'd waved at, or hugged, or even passionately made out with. So far, no one had reciprocated his cheerfulness; a few people had actually begun walking in the other direction at a brisk pace when he approached them. He paid them little to no mind. It didn't matter what other people thought about him today. He was only here for one very specific—and very welcome—purpose: he'd won a free car, a brand new Ferrari shipped to the U.S. straight from fine Italia. And he was taking every single opportunity he could to rub it in everyone else's face.

He scanned the sidewalk ahead. Coming at him from the opposite direction was a mid-morning jogger bounding heavily up and down with each step. Perfect, he thought, another person he could enthusiastically inform about his incredible stroke of good luck. So far he'd already informed the hotel bellhop, a police officer, a cat, several people riding on the cross-town bus, and screamed it from the top of a church steeple for good measure. Joe swaggered up to his quarry slowly, barely able to contain his explosively enthusiastic excitement.

"Hello good sir, how are you today?" he asked, starting off the conversation cordially.

"Well, I—"

"CAN'T TALK NOW, I JUST WON A FREE CAR! HAHAHAHAHA!"

With that, Joe merrily clicked his heels and sped off. The jogger shrugged and resumed jogging in the opposite direction, this time somewhat faster than he'd been going before. One thing was for certain; that guy'd just been informed the _hell_ out of, Joe thought happily.

The address Joe wanted was just a little farther down the street, a nondescript-looking suburban house that he couldn't help but find familiar. For a moment he wondered, in gut-wrenching, rage-stoking agony, if he'd actually found the right place at all. A quick look at the number on the mailbox allayed his fears: 555 29th Street. Yep, this was it. Within that garage was a superfast, ultra-kickin' roadster with his name stenciled in black ink on the back. He would go in, sign his name on a couple papers, grab the keys and beat it. After that, life for him would be filled with nothing but drag races, sexy ladies and champagne. Oh yes, things were really going to pick up for him after this little baby. He had a damn good feeling about it.

Joe sped up to the door, opened it and stepped inside. Oddly enough, inside it looked just like any other suburban home. In fact, it looked as if somebody actually lived there, somebody with a freaky propensity for collecting hundreds upon hundreds of movies. Both the foyer and hallway were stacked with VHS tapes, Betas and DVDs with odd logos and Chinese characters printed all over them. There were disturbing pictures on the walls showing people being ripped in two, grotesque cartoons about murder and death, and a picture of some guy in a bathrobe. All this pointed to an occupant that was a little more serial killer-ish than Joe had hoped for. Then again, he thought, when somebody was giving out free cars like candy, chances are they would be a little more eccentric than most. Maybe he was some kind of demented business mogul, like Howard Hughes but with cars. Yeah. That had to be it. Ignoring the clutter, Joe strutted towards the living room, sure that he would find the keys to his new lease on life within.

He was hilariously wrong.

"Alright, now where's that free—NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!"

Thirteen angry pairs of eyes glared back at Joe the second he stepped into the living room. Those pairs of eyes were attached to thirteen angry people, all of whom Joe knew and recognized as his snarky, nerdy, socially awkward co-workers. They weren't the reason he was so upset, though they played their part in it. He was upset because he knew that he had been tricked, yet again, and that he and his colleagues were here to take part in some contrived plot concocted by the one guy they all hated more than anyone else on the planet, even each other. It was yet another stupid scheme by the same stupid jerk that pulled this kind of stupid crap every stupid year. When would they learn? Probably never.

"NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!"

On one side of the room stood Phelous, Linkara, The Cinema Snob and Eight Bit Mickey, their bodies slouched and their faces holding dour expressions. Linkara was cradling his magic gun testily in one hand. The Snob was nursing a can of Crystal Pepsi and grimacing, more likely at his situation than at the taste of the cola. Film Brain and Obscurus Lupa both sat on the couch, Film Brain wearing his usual obnoxiously happy grin and Lupa wearing a face that was a mixture of disappointment and murderous, hate-filled homicidal punch-lust. Film Brain waved at Joe, prompting Phelous to slap him in the back of the head to get him to knock it off.

"NO! NO! NO! NO! NO…! NO…! NO…! NO… N—NO…! NO… NO…"

On the other side of the room stood Handsome Tom, Bennett the Sage, Paw, Todd in the Shadows and JewWario. They were also upset, though they appeared more bored than anything else. JewWario was observing Joe's paroxysms with disinterest, Todd wouldn't stop staring at Lupa, and Handsome Tom shook his head sadly at the entire affair. On the floor next to the end table placed in the group's midst sat Marzgurl and The Nostalgia Chick, Marzgurl holding her head tiredly in one hand and The Chick texting on her phone. All in all, it looked as if their benefactor had managed to snag just about everyone on the site that was popular enough to be noticed, but not popular enough in real life to warrant any attention from the police if they went missing for a few days.

"No… no… no… no… no… oh God no… no… no… no… n… n… noooo…." By this time Joe had exhausted his entire supply of "no's", and was curled up in a fetal position on the floor. Every so often, he would rock back and forth from side to side, as if he could attempt to roll out of the living room and back out the front door by doing so. After a long while, he turned to look breathlessly upwards at the miasma of depressed twenty-something's standing listlessly about the room.

"Lemme guess," he croaked, "you guys were promised free cars too, right?"

All thirteen nodded yes, and simultaneously produced crumpled up tickets similar to the one Joe had ripped into bits in his rage.

"But there are no cars, are there? It's all a beautiful lie, right? _RIGHT?"_

The others, sadly, nodded yes again.

"_It's him again, isn't it?"_ Joe squeaked. _"The Nostalgia Critic?"_

There came nods in the affirmative from all around, this time accompanied by vaguely audible snarling and murmuring. Joe curled up into a ball on the floor and began to sob. Eventually, Tom and Phelous helped him up and carried him to the couch, where they plopped him down unceremoniously next to Lupa.

"Don't worry, Joe. We'll get him in his sleep." She comforted.

"Can we use a flamethrower?" Joe asked hopefully.

"Sure," she replied. Joe continued sobbing nonetheless. So far, things weren't picking up as much as he'd hoped. Meanwhile, the others had managed to get reacquainted with each other in the time it had taken Joe to arrive and have his mental breakdown. All the old problems were still there, along with some new ones: Marzgurl and Linkara were no longer dating, Paw was still half-unemployed, Sage had gotten yet another triple bypass, and Phelous had attempted to learn conversational German with disastrous consequences. A new member to this sad inner circle was Todd, who was partaking in an unwanted one-sided conversation with JewWario.

"Aren't you that Todd in the Shadows guy?" JewWario asked him in a rough transition.

"Yeah, I am." Todd sighed, again. They'd been through this already several times.

"But you're in the light right now, so how can you be in the shadows?"

"…I don't know," Todd replied pointedly. "I just am."

"But I can see you, so that means you're not Todd in the Shadows. It means you're Todd in the Light… unless you're just Todd now, and you turn into Todd in the Shadows later, or you're Todd later and you're Todd in the Shadows now, but then that goes back to the whole 'I can still see you' thing, which is kinda weird if you're Todd in the Shadows right now and not just To—"

*KLIK*

"Aaaaand then he backed away…" Todd had produced a pistol, which he pointed directly at JewWario's head. Meanwhile, another bout of wits was occurring between Film Brain and Obscurus Lupa on the couch. Lupa had been attempting to stir a lucid conversation out of him for the past hour, but all she had received were bits of coherent sentences and fragments of something that sounded like either "waffles" or "dodgers".

"So… what half-assed scheme do you think The Critic has for us this time?"

"I DON'T KNOW BUT I'M SO EXCITED!"

"Okay, seriously, are you feeling alright? You've been like this for hours."

"I'M OKAY, JUST EXCITED!"

"…Is there some kind of medicine you should be on?"

"EXCITED!"

"Fine, I'm just going to stop talking."

"Well that was rude…"

At that moment, Spoony walked briskly into the living room in the same manner the others had before him. He was also very excited about his nonexistent free car. In less than one second, he wouldn't be.

"Alrighty, where's that free ca—NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

He fell to his knees and began sobbing profusely, much as Joe had done before him.

"Hey, Spoony," the others said glumly.

"CRIIIITIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIC!" Spoony shouted, his arms raised to the heavens.

"Yup, it's The Critic." Linkara replied.

"That wasn't a question!"

"I know, just stating the obvious."

Spoony sighed, covering his eyes with both hands. "What is it this time?"

"Dunno."

"Can we stop him from doing it?"

"Probably not."

"Can we leave?"

"Nope."

"Fair enough." Spoony got up and walked lifelessly over to the couch, where he plopped himself down in front of Film Brain and Lupa.

"Don't worry, Spoony. We'll make him pay." Lupa reassured.

"Can we use a cattle prod?" Spoony asked hopefully.

"Sure."

"Good." He put his hands over his eyes again nonetheless.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I had to put Spoony's introduction in at the very end in order to make it flow better. Other than that, this is all straight from the movie.

I always wondered why they didn't just leave while The Critic was getting ready.

-Xoanon


	3. Part 1, Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Just Explain!**

Meanwhile, in another room of the house, a gangly, pasty and very exciteable young man was casually preparing for the most important seminar he would ever give in his miserable life. He was dressed in a raggedy black coat and hat, blue jeans, a white t-shirt, and wore a vibrant red tie looped around his neck in a sort-of half Windsor. On his face there were shiny wire frame glasses. They framed a face primed for destiny, one filled with a sense of purpose it was unaccustomed to, along with a thin veneer of smugness that it knew rather well. This man was The Nostalgia Critic, and he was rapidly nearing his finest hour.

He had been awake for hours, coasting along on a mixture of anti-psychosis medication, Red Bull and sheer unadulterated adrenaline, waiting for the opportune moment to reveal his new venture to the others. He'd heard the shouts, the cursing, and the many, many death threats from his unhappy guests as they'd filed in. He paid them no mind, aside from some of the more creative ones involving cheese and a pack of rabid ibexes. Let them scoff, he thought, let them rage, let them treat his newest master stroke as mere jest. Let them bitterly threaten to burn the entire house down with him still in it. He didn't care. This was going to be his best plan yet, and it would also be his greatest triumph.

It had taken him over a year to prepare for this single moment. Ever since the… unpleasantness that had occured in Nevada, he'd been in something of a slump. Originally, he'd attempted to fashion a new nation to fill the void: Criticland. It hadn't worked out very well, as several injured police officers and five months of court-ordered electrotherapy could attest to. When the smoke had cleared, he'd gone limping back to his reviews, but still the gnawing lust for glory had remained. To think that a mere quasi-job as a shit-shoveling critic toiling at the edge of society could contain him, the once and former ruler of an entire nation of sla—subjects, was laughable. No, he had wanted more, _needed_ more. And one strange day, he'd found the answer to all his problems waiting for him in his email inbox.

After a few months spent gathering resources and scrounging through the hidden corners of the web, he had found his new dream. It was then that he'd sent the free car notices out to his idiot prey and waited for them to arrive. Now they were all finally here, grumbling and groaning, in his living room; now the great dream he'd had for several months would finally be made real. They would be the unsuspecting pawns that would help him reach this new goal, whether they knew it or not.

The Critic turned toward the end table in his "shit-shoveling room", which to anyone else would be considered a low end, semi-professional recording studio. On it there was a small folded map, drawn and inked Tolkien-style, several Sharpies, and a VHS tape. The tape was labeled, quite succinctly, "EPICNESS!"

He picked up both the map and the tape, pulling the tape out of its aging cardboard sheath. He examined it carefully to make sure it hadn't been damaged in the escape. He'd gone through quite a lot to obtain this little meal ticket: breaking and entering, coercion, trading baseball cards online, and various other unspeakable deeds. Now it would be the underpinning of his argument, one that would cram the genius of his new plan straight down the other's throats. Without it, they would beat him senseless and throw him in the dumpster out back, but with it they would follow him like lemmings to the slaughter. The key to ultimate power was now firmly ensconced in his devious little hands. It was time.

He turned and swiftly walked out of the room.

* * *

The Nostalgia Critic strolled calmly into the living room.

"Welcome, fellow reviewers of That Guy with the Glasses! How's everybody doing today?"

A hail of gunfire, knives, and several used tissues sped directly at The Critic. He ducked just in time, leaving the bullets and blades lodged firmly in the drywall behind him while the tissues fluttered to the ground in front. He leapt up again as quickly as he dropped.

"Okay, okay, so you figured out there's no free car giveaway. Well done." He put his palms up in a friendly, please-don't-kill-me gesture. "I know I would be angry too, believe me. But if I had told you the real reason why I dragged you all here, I'm afraid you wouldn't have come."

"You're damn right we wouldn't have come, assface!" Angry Joe said angrily, jumping up suddenly from his spot on the couch. "I came here for my freaking car! I missed my aunt's third wedding for this!"

"I missed my nana's funeral!" Eight Bit Mickey cried tearfully.

"I missed free taquito night at Taco Bell!" Paw added.

"I know, I know, everybody had important plans," The Critic conceded. "I'm missing a few important things as well—"

"Yeah, like parts of your brain..." The Cinema Snob grumbled.

"Stow it! But trust me, it'll all be worth it once you hear what I'm about to say. You could miss a hundred funerals for this—a thousand weddings! You could even miss ten thousand taquito-supplied wedding slash funerals! It's that awesome!"

"What's awesome? What are you even talking about?" Marzgurl asked grumpily.

"Ah, yes, what am I talking about?" The Critic pondered, slowly pacing around in his spot. "I am talking about the truth, dear Marzgurl! The truth! The truth is what I am talking about! The truth eternal! The big truth, the naked truth, the awful truth! Truth, truth, truthy truth truth! Yes sir, the whole truth and nothing but—"

"GET ON WITH IT!" Todd, Mickey and Paw all shouted at once.

"Okay! Sheesh, testy!" The Critic recomposed himself briefly. "The truth, my friends, is that I have something much better than a car…"

"It better be a boat," Phelous grumbled to Linkara.

"…The truth is that I have something in my possession that can get us riches beyond our wildest imaginations, something that can make every person in this room a multi-billionaire, something that can make us all kings, or presidents, or maharajahs or other semi-democratic heads of state! My friends, we are sitting on the opportunity of a lifetime, and all the answers—"

He swung the tape dramatically into view, holding it near his right shoulder for all to see. "—are on this tape! Who wants me to play it?"

The room was completely silent.

"OOH! OOH! FILM BRAIN DOES! FILM BRAIN DOES! LET FILM BRAIN PLAY IT!" Film Brain leapt up from the couch and sped towards the waiting tape. He had almost reached it when it suddenly disappeared from view. Film Brain's overzealous scrambling carried him directly into the opposite wall, evoking gales of half-hearted laughter from those in attendance. The young Brit pealed himself from the edifice and turned swiftly around to face the tape. Another quicker and much more adroit young man, who had somehow managed to go unnoticed until just that very moment, had plucked it from The Critic's waiting grip.

"I'll do that for you, Critic, If you don't mind." He said cheerily. The Critic reciprocated by putting a friendly arm around the new interloper. He was unaware that Film Brain was now staring at both of them, mouth hanging wide open like that of a dead fish.

"I don't mind, Luke. I don't mind at all." The Critic chuckled. "Ah, Film Brain! I see you've met one of our newest members, Luke Mochrie. He's an up-and-coming reviewing talent on the site—a real go-getter, and with a fresh gimmick to boot!"

"…Up-and-coming?" Film Brain mimicked halfheartedly.

"Exactly, up-and-coming," The Critic repeated. "I mean really, his little 'not every movie is the worst or best ever' spiel is exactly what we need on the site to freshen things up! What did you call yourself again, Luke?"

"Film Conscience. And the gimmick's nothing special, really. Just getting both sides of the debate, is all." Luke countered, blushing noticeably at The Critic's praise. "I mean, you can't really expect everyone to have the same opinion on a movie." He turned to Film Brain, who at this point was becoming increasingly distressed. "Like I said, pal, it's nothing special. I'm just a reviewer like you, only fresh and new!"

He and The Critic both smiled and laughed at this little sales slogan, which somehow made Film Brain feel as if he'd just ingested a burrito made of glass, benzene and Peruvian fire ants. After this little vignette, The Critic suddenly turned serious again.

"So anyway, Film Brian—"

"Brain," Luke corrected. Film Brain would have done so, but he was too busy struggling under the weight of Luke's sudden usurpation of his duties to form anything but a few incoherent words gibbered at random under his breath.

"Brain, whatever." The Critic waved a hand nonchalantly. "As you can see, Luke has everything under control, so why don't you go ahead and sit back down so we can continue on with the epicness?"

Film Brain didn't move from his spot.

"Sit down, Film Brain." The Critic sighed.

"I'll get him, Critic." Luke moved to guide Film Brain back to the couch. Film Brain, desperate to retain his status as The Critic's number one underling, quickly resorted to his lowest form of groveling:

"Wait! Uh— I mean, can I at least get you some coffee, Mr. Critic?" he snapped pleadingly, his eyes now the exact size of white, medium-sized grapes with large brown and black dots stamped on them.

"Hmm, well the doctors did say another espresso would probably give me a stroke…" The Critic pondered. "Ah, what the hell. Go crazy. The brewer's in the kitchen, third cabinet from the left."

"Oh thank you, Mr. Critic, thank you!" Film Brain cried happily. He sped off in the direction of the kitchen, leaving Luke alone to begin the arcane and highly complex motion of popping the VHS tape into the player on top of the TV.

"So what the hell is this about again?" Lupa asked. "We've all been here for about two hours, and your little speech didn't really explain much other than 'you're completely insane'."

"Yeah!" Benzaie yelled, having suddenly appeared in-between The Cinema Snob's legs for no apparent reason. "This all sounds like bullshit to me!"

"Benzaie, what the hell?" The Snob shouted indignantly. "Where'd you come from?"

"I was hiding in your coattails. You really have a lot of unused space in here." Benzaie explained. "Look, Beary's with me too!" The small, French polar bear popped out from underneath him as he spoke.

"Get out from under me." The Snob grumbled.

"No way! It's nice and toasty down here!"

"Get out!"

"Enough with the antics! It's all explained in the movie!" The Critic yelled, restoring order. "Now everybody just sit down and watch!"

"Oh boy, a movie!" Benzaie said happily.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Again, had to change some stuff around. I try to keep things as clear and easy-to-follow as possible in these while still following the movie's storyline. Feel free to write a review or point out anything I missed. I'll be glad to fix it.

-Xoanon


	4. Part 1, Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Flashback to the Anti-Future**

Luke pushed the tape into the slot on the front of the receiver, the mechanism inside swallowing the entire thing whole like a trapdoor spider. The Critic grabbed the remote and flipped to the "video 3" output on the TV with a grandiose flick of his wrist. Almost instantly the screen went black, then blue, then it turned to garbled static with an accompanying obnoxious hiss. The viewers were somewhat less than enraptured.

"Give it a minute, it's an old tape." The Critic cautioned, slightly nervous. He could see the carless murder-lust present in their eyes. Luckily, at that moment the tape's contents sprang jarringly into view. It was the beginning of an old newscast. A grotesque, ancient-looking 1980s computer graphic floated across the screen: "GNN NEWS", it said in bolded yellow letters. The subtitle "with Larry Prince" scrawled itself in off-white, dashed cursive underneath. Accentuating this was a snippet of some public domain classical piece, which had magically transformed into a tinny, scratchy, off-key mess during its filtration through the TV's speakers.

"Well the credits are already terrible…" The Nostalgia Chick began.

"Don't review it!" The Critic snapped. At this, a frustrated groan went up from nearly everyone in attendance. The offending graphics faded slowly into a bespectacled, 50-something man seated behind a walnut desk. A picture of the Chicago skyline was folded over the background behind him.

"Good evening, Chicago. This is GNN Channel 7 with your host, Larry Prince." He said. "In local news tonight, new leads have been discovered in the case regarding the disappearance of 30-year-old Gurnee-area store clerk, Chuck Jaffers."

At the words "Chuck Jaffers", a file photo sprang up adjacent to Prince's head. By the photo's reckoning Jaffers was meaty, poorly-shaven, and possessed greasy brown hair that looked as if a preserved banana peel had been stapled to his head. He stared out at the audience blankly, his expression a mix between "startled bush baby" and "does that man have a cookie in his pocket?" He was wearing something blue resembling an off-market Hawaiian shirt, and horn-rimmed glasses which looked as if they hadn't been cleaned in a few months. Oddly enough, he bared a passing resemblance to the newscaster, if only through the folds of their facial structure and nothing else. Prince continued with his monologue:

"As our viewers may recall, Jaffers was first reported missing by his landlady nearly one week ago. Ever since then, police have been combing the Gurnee area for any information concerning him. Finding sources has not been easy, especially with the recent revelation that Jaffers was considered, quoting his landlady: 'An overweight, four-eyed creep who spent most of his time playing with action figures instead of finding a real job.'"

"Real balanced reporting, GNN." Linkara muttered under his breath.

"What did I just say about reviewing?" The Critic snapped. Linkara obediently went silent.

"However, in the six days following his disappearance, enough vital clues have been discovered to continue the investigation for at least three more days." As Prince spoke, the tape cut to a video taken of "Jaffer's Residence" in Gurnee. It was a dingy little bachelor's apartment; there was a chair, a few tables, a TV, and a laundry board crammed into one small chain of rooms. There were no discernable windows. The rest of the apartment was a mess; it held a menagerie of different tabletop games, fake swords and shields inscribed in runes hung on the walls, boxed-up mint condition collectables, finished and unfinished figurines, guidebooks, comic books, and other baffling paraphernalia. It was a nerd's paradise.

"And that's not to say the evidence found isn't compelling," Prince continued as the camera panned around the warren-like rat hole. "Neighbors of Jaffers have helped to paint a strange portrait of the missing clerk, a man whom they have near-unanimously described as 'emotionally disturbed' and 'out there'."

"He was emotionally disturbed, definitely emotionally disturbed." A female interviewee described only as "Witness" said. "I'm a major in Psychology at the University of Chicago, so I should know."

"I'm telling you, dudes, he was—like—totally weird…" droned another man named "Witness's Deadbeat Boyfriend". "He was into some weird stuff, like totally out there stuff, man."

The tape cut back to Prince. "According to friends and family, Jaffers was apparently an avid player of the countercultural 'character-based, scenario-driven cooperative diversion game' known to its players as Dungeons and Dragons." Prince made little air quotations as he said this. "In the days leading up to his disappearance, he was heard ranting over the finding of a magical gauntlet known only as 'Malachite's Hand'. Police suspect the game was an addiction to Jaffers, and that the obsession over finding such a treasure caused him to go insane, leaving his old life behind for a fabricated fairy tale in the streets. Not unlike the timeless cautionary tale of _Mazes and Monsters_..."

"Oh that is _bullshit!_" Spoony shouted, jumping up from the couch and pointing an accusing finger at the screen. "You can't judge everyone who plays tabletop RPGs by one weirdo who went out and killed some people! Just because one guy took his roll-playing way too far doesn't mean we're all a bunch of psychotic freaks! It's not our fault that Tom Hanks stabbed a guy under the influence of some crappy D&D knockoff, okay? And what the hell's up with that—"

"Spoony," Marzgurl cut in. "You realize this is a thirty-year-old broadcast, right?"

Spoony thought about that for a moment, and then began to blush.

"I retract my previous statements. Thank you." He said solemnly, sitting back down. On the tape Prince continued uninterrupted:

"As of this airing, Jaffers has not been located. If you have any information regarding his case, please contact the Gurnee Police Department at the following number."

The number was flashed on the screen once for three-and-a-half seconds.

"Sad. Very, very sad…" Prince recited, taking his glasses from his face in the symbolic gesture of solidarity every newscaster in America knew how to fake. "On a lighter note, the president has been shot—"

The rest of the newscast was cut from the schedule as The Critic savagely pulled the video out of the receiver. The still-playing magnetic film was torn from the cartridge in ribbons, utterly ruining the footage in the process.

"Well? Didn't I say it was epic?" The Critic said proudly, while attempting to rid himself of the sticky black strands of videotape that had wound around his arm with little success. The assembled group gave no reply.

"Sooo… what?" Benzaie said first. "What's the point?"

"Yeah, what exactly do we take away from this little tale?" The Snob piped up. "Other than 'The Nostalgia Critic is a lying dumbass who's about to get his face stomped in'?"

"What? You guys are seriously asking me what?" The Critic asked, genuinely surprised. "Are you blind or something?"

"I guess so," Phelous said. "I didn't understand it."

"How could you not understand it? It was so clear!" The Critic cried.

"It was about a crazy guy who disappeared twenty years ago. What's so special about it?" Lupa questioned. The others nodded in agreement.

"Wha—but—how can you—oh Jesus, fine!" The Critic yelled. "If you all want me to draw a picture for you, so you can finally understand it, then I'll do it!"

Cursing and mumbling under his breath, he stomped angrily into the kitchen. A moment later, he returned with a large drawing pad and a pen. Very quickly, he scribbled something down onto it, pausing once or twice to look up at his waiting audience in disgust. He was done in less than a minute, and held up the pad for everyone to see. On it he'd drawn something resembling a large black mitten with a smaller circle placed inside it. The words "THE GAUNTLET, YOU ASSWIPES" were written underneath the picture in large, unmistakable letters.

"Gottit?" The Critic sneered, pointing rather pointedly at the sketch. The others didn't answer right away, as it took them all a few moments to figure out exactly what it was they were looking at. Finally, Todd broke the silence.

"The… gauntlet?" he posited.

"YES THE FUCKING GAUNTLET! GOD!" The Critic roared. "The magic gauntlet the news guy was talking about! We can go after it!"

"Really? That's your plan?" Linkara snorted doubtfully.

"Snort all you want, Lewis, but you can't deny the truth!" The Critic pointed an accusing finger at Linkara's nose. "I've done research on this thing, and it turns out that it actually exists! And it gets better; there's apparently some kind of ancient jewel you can put on the gauntlet that makes it and the wearer indestructible!" He slapped the crude drawing with one hand to accentuate his statement.

"So, you think that by finding it, we can take control of its maaaagical powers?" Paw said skeptically, wiggling his fingers.

"Hell no! Everybody knows there's no such thing as magic," The Critic scoffed, waving his hand at the idea. He didn't notice both Benzaie and Phelous struggling to hold Linkara back on the other side of the room, and that Linkara had both his Dragon Dagger and magic gun drawn and possessed a face contorted in furious rage. "But if we actually find this thing, it could be worth a fortune, maybe even two fortunes! People would pay through the _nose _to get a look at it! Think about it: come see the priceless Old World gauntlet, Malachite's Hand! Tickets start at $9.95 plus five cents tax! It'll make us all rich, or at the very least moderately wealthy!"

"So what?" Phelous shook his head doubtfully, still managing to hold onto Linkara by putting him in a headlock. "Even if the gauntlet's worth a bundle, we have no idea where it is or how we can get to it."

"Ah Phelous, I never did put much faith in your intellect…" The Critic mused, shaking his head back, "for I have in my possession… a map!" With the goofiest grin possible, he held up the map he'd been carrying in one hand. The others groaned again.

"That's right, contain your ecstasy," The Critic replied proudly. "This is the original map to the gauntlet, the one that Jaffers made! He knew where it was and he knew how to find it, and he left clues; he made it into a game! All we have to do is play it through to the end and it'll lead us directly to the gauntlet!"

"But this thing was written thirty years ago, and it's all in rhymes and riddles," Sage countered. "How are we supposed to figure out a map that was written thirty years ago?"

"Wait a minute, how'd you get the map?" The Critic pointed at the map, which was now clasped in-between Sage's pudgy fingers.

"Uh… the magic of getting a head start?" Sage suggested weakly. Unimpressed, the Critic huffily snatched the map from Sage's hands.

"That's the catch," he muttered. "You all heard on the tape that Jaffers was this huge role-playing geek, so he wrote the entire map as a role-playing adventure. That means we all have to dress up and act as fantasy characters in order to figure out what all the riddles mean."

"So it's a game?" Eight Bit Mickey wondered.

"It's all a stupid game, yes." The Critic answered. "The only rule is to figure out the riddles on the map, but apparently you'll have a better chance of doing it quicker if you're in character; y'know, getting in touch with wizards, dragons, that kind of crap."

"So it's LARPing, then?" Spoony questioned.

"No! That's just a bunch of dorks dressing up like idiots and fighting for a fake reward!" The Critic sulked.

"Okay, sure. LARPing is a bunch of dorks dressing up like idiots and fighting for a fake reward." Spoony parroted.

"Right."

"While we're a bunch of dorks dressing up like idiots and fighting for a _real_ reward."

"Exactly. Totally different."

"So who do we dress up as?" Todd asked.

"I dunno, whatever you want." The Critic shrugged. "The game only says it has to be a character from a quest-related fantasy, nothing else. The map also has two paths to it. I've managed to round up at least twenty of you, so if we split into two teams we'll have a better chance of finding the gauntlet."

"So you honestly think all this is going to pay off?" The Nostalgia Chick questioned skeptically.

"My friends…" The Critic began slowly. "Yes. Yes it will."

"…That's it?" Lupa scoffed.

"Okay fine, the deluxe version then." The Critic grumbled. "My friends, I can safely say that you will not regret this venture if you so choose to undertake it. At the end of this quest, we will not only have a ton of money, but also a ton of cool stuff that can be bought with that money. We'll have cool cars, cool mansions, cool butlers, cool strippers of both sexes, cool swimming pools, cool fountains, and cool gigantic-screen plasma TVs. But we will also possess something far more important: immortality. Cool, sexy, awesome immortality."

"You didn't say anything about the gauntlet giving you immortality," Todd chimed in.

"It's metaphorical immortality, dumbshit." The Critic responded calmly, pushing both him and JewWario out of the way. He walked slowly over to the bay window and looked out onto the front yard. "When we find this gauntlet, it means that our names will be chiseled onto a shrine of everlasting remembrance, and inscribed forever in the pages of the book of destiny..."

The Critic stared out the window. Beyond his house there lay the street, and the thick trees of the wild forest that lay just beyond the realm of the civilized suburbs. It was there that the map led to, the map which he now possessed. It was out there somewhere, waiting for him: the gauntlet, _his_ gauntlet, the gauntlet that would soon be his. Soon he would quickly come to possess the gauntlet that would shortly be his, and fast.

"This immortality will be bestowed on each and every person here. It is not just for me, and not just for yourselves," he intoned solemnly. "It will belong to all of us, and all of us will belong to it. It will make sure our names survive into the far future, into a world enriched and changed for the better by our finding of this meal ticket. Take down this day, gentlemen and lady-gentlemen, for it is one of great remembering. Names will be remembered, quests will become legends, and legends will become… _legendary._"

* * *

**Author's Notes: **The Critic is one smooth operator, isn't he? All it takes is one speech...

-Xoanon


	5. Part 1, Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: The HEART of the Matter**

The Critic continued to stand at the front window. Behind him, the entire group had fallen silent, no doubt still totally enraptured by his rousing oration. Those motivational speaking classes he'd taken had done him a world of good, he thought. It would now be much easier to convince them all that this was the right step in the right direction. They would now find the gauntlet for him, unwitting hands that would hand him his means of escape from the gutter of the Internet to the top tier of wealth, prestige, and celebrity, a pinacle from which he could look down at the tops of their commoner heads, laugh, and spit profusely. It would be the great culmination of his entire life's struggle. Finally, he would have his respect. Finally, he would be noticed. Finally, he would be somebody.

"So how about it, my friends?" he asked in a low whisper, still staring out onto the front lawn and making a mental note that he would need to water it later. "We are standing on the threshold of greatness, of glory! And all we need to do is take that first step on the road to obtaining it. What say you, my allies, my comrades, my proud warriors of virtu—OH GODDAMNIT!"

The Critic had turned around to face an empty living room filled with half-depressed chairs and sofas. All twenty of the jailed participants had left the room while his back had been turned. How they had all managed to obtain such adroitness at sneakery he could only guess.

"I swear to God, it's like working with a bunch of kindergarteners!" he huffed. He stalked to the front door, opened it, and stepped out onto the driveway.

"ALRIGHT, YOU GUYS WANNA PLAY HARDBALL? FINE!" The Critic screamed at the top of his lungs. "IF YOU DON'T GO, YOU'RE ALL FIRED! END OF DISCUSSION!"

Off in the distance, at least two or three houses down from where he stood, there came a loud groaning noise in multiple tones and durations. The Critic smiled.

"8 AM TOMORROW, SHITLORDS! BRING YOUR COSTUMES!" Satisfied, he leapt back into the house as fast as possible. Like many shut-ins he absolutely detested sunlight; it didn't agree with him at all. He had a costume to plan out anyway. Now, what character from a fantasy story could he choose that didn't have a really stupid or complex outfit?

His thoughts on the matter were suddenly interrupted by a large, scalding hot cup of some ugly brown substance being shoved into his face at Mach 4. He jumped backwards from it instinctively. The vessel was attached to the oven-mitted hands of Film Brain, who had matched the mug of coffee he held with the mug of a deranged serial killer that was now plastered all over his pointed face.

"Here you go, Mr. Critic!" he said happily. "I got you your coffee! If you need to drink it right now, just remember to take little baby sips. It's really, really hot!"

He thrust the mug out to The Critic, in a manner much like that of someone holding a crucifix out at a vampire. The Critic inspected it disgustedly.

"Really? Store bought coffee from a can?" he asked skeptically.

Film Brain nodded succinctly, head rolling back and forth like it was impaled on a spring.

The Critic scoffed. "Get with the program, Film Bob! Luke already got me a latte!"

The Bateman-level smile disappeared from Film Brain's face. He turned to where The Critic was pointing. Luke was standing in the doorway to the kitchen with a Starbucks coffee cup in one hand, his other hand perched just over the top of it, his face primed in the "I'm not trying to display any strong emotion, so I'm just going to give you a little smile" position.

"And look at that! He's even holding one hand over the lid so it won't cool down too much!" The Critic marveled. "That's genius, Luke!"

"Thank you, Mr. Critic." Luke responded robotically.

"B-but Mr. Critic! I'm sorry, I didn't mean—" Film Brain started. The Critic put up a palm to silence him.

"It's alright, I know you haven't been on your a-game lately. We've all been under a lot of stress."

"But I—"

"Look, just try to get a little sleep and we'll deal with your performance tomorrow, okay?"

"…Okay." Film Brain conceded. The Critic gave him a pat on the head and strode off into the kitchen with Luke. "How's the coffee?" he asked merrily.

"Extra cream, extra sugar. Just the way you like it." Luke responded.

"Excellent job, Luke. You know just what I'm looking for!" The Critic praised again. The two laughed at this like it was an old joke only they understood, one they'd shared with each other long ago because they'd been friends for a very long time and nothing would ever come between them ever, because they were such good friends. Film Brain stared down at the ceramic mug in his hand. He'd put in extra cream, but not extra sugar. It wasn't The Critic's favorite coffee, either, and it hadn't been properly washed for six hours with fresh spring water from the Alps and dried with a silk hankie like The Critic usually asked him to do. Film Brain hung his head shamefully. He'd done a bad thing.

No, he thought again, it wasn't him. It was Luke. Luke had done a bad thing. What did he think he was trying to pull, anyway? A cheap, store bought latte would never be good enough for a sensitive digestive tract like The Critic's; it was far too acidic, it would give him heartburn later! Who was Luke to decide which coffee was the best coffee for The Critic to drink? _He_ was The Critic's proper dietary technician. It was _his_ job, _he'd_ earned it, and no one had the right to take that away from him. It made him angry to think about it, very angry…

With one swift motion, Film Brain crunched the mug he was holding into powder in his fist. He instantly regretted this, as a flood of hot coffee suddenly came spewing outward in all directions, spilling all over the room and all over him. With a shriek he toppled to the floor, regretting the decision he'd made to use the "Insta-Roast Superheated Coffee Delivery System" he'd gotten The Critic for Christmas.

"Keep it down in there, Film Brony! I'm trying to drink my latte!" The Critic shouted from the next room.

"Sorry Mr. Critic, sir!" Film Brain apologized through the burning sensation he felt all around him. He still screamed in pain, but he did so very quietly. The Critic liked silence when partaking in his caffeinated beverages.

* * *

That night, in a coordinated group effort that took place all over the city of Chicago, a group of extremely pissed-off internet reviews went costume shopping. They hit up every major store on the north side, asking for something that didn't look entirely ridiculous, yet still had enough major issues to destroy the remnants of their tattered dignity. There was fitting and refitting, sizing and resizing, argumentation over the proper dress length and color, prop comparison, nerd battling, heroic posing and general insanity from those who had less luck than their counterparts. At the end of it all, most went back to their respective hotels more or less satisfied, except Phelous. His night was rather different.

The Critic's evening also progressed rather smoothly. At around 7:30 he laid out his trappings on the bed in the upstairs bedroom. Barring some old playthings he'd fished out of long-forgotten toy boxes, a few magic-y trinkets from the local swap meet, and some collectibles he'd bartered for in the Southland, he didn't have much. A cracked, plastic police helmet lay on the nightstand, its old Coke bottle green visor half-missing and hanging askew by a single bolt. Next to it were some plastic tools lifted from a child's construction set; a hammer, screwdriver, pliers and a few bolts. There were a couple dingy sports jerseys scattered across the bedclothes, a top hat and magic wand from a long-lost magic kit, the pair of boots and miniature chest plate from a _Robocop_ Light-Up Action Uniform (a hardly accurate moniker; the damn thing's lights had only worked once), and a rubber ducky on a chain. It was a good start, all things considered.

The centerpiece of this horribly sad menagerie of crap was a plastic foil, a _Legend of Zelda_ replica Master Sword that had sold for fifteen dollars, twelve cents at the Peoria geek support group known as Phantasy Phest. It was a dingy thing. The handle had lost most of its foam grip, part of the left cross guard had broken off entirely, and the sword itself was fractured in a couple places. It was drenched in a sticky substance, possibly honey or what had once been honey at some point in time, and now only existed as an impossible-to-remove residue coating at least 25% of the blade's surface. Still, the weapon did have a sort of value, mostly of the type that couldn't be measured in any physical sense, the type that said "this sword is important to me, and although it is worn, damaged and nearly impossible to keep in good repair, I want to keep it." In other words, it had nostalgia.

The Critic lifted the sword from the bed and removed it from its plastic sheath. It was lightweight, the blade small and dagger-like so as to make it more maneuverable. One of the Peoria nerds had given him a quick lesson in sword fighting, and he still remembered the cardinal rules, mainly, that they were blunt, bloody, and ended very quickly. All the same he went through some quick, Errol Flynn-like stances, slashing and slicing, whirling and twirling in a manner that would have decapitated him had he been using a real sword. He was no master, but such a frenetic display would be sufficient enough to scare off any seasoned LARP-er or role-playing boogeyman. Satisfied, he shoved the sword back into its scabbard with a click, pinching his palm in the process.

The plan was falling neatly into place, he thought as he laid the sword back on the bed. In the morning the others would arrive, and they would then start out on the path for money, fame, power and more fame. Yet he still had the sudden premonition that something in his plan had gone awry, that someone had somehow snuck into the house and was now standing somewhat near him in the room. Someone had. And that someone wasn't Film Brain.

"Critic!"

"GAAAAAAH!" The Critic shouted in alarm and whirled around. A young Indian was standing at the foot of the bed, wearing his usual light brown jacket and blue t-shirt with the green globe on it. He was holding a small white piece of paper. The Critic wasn't very happy to see him, for he was the one who had foretold of his nation's doom the last time they'd met. "MA-TI!"

"Yes Critic, Ma-Ti. From _Captain Planet_!" Ma-Ti replied proudly, in an aside to no one in particular.

"How the hell did you get into my house?" The Critic cried.

"Forced entry," Ma-Ti replied. "Sorry to barge in on you so late, but I just got your message about the free car!"

"But… I didn't send you a message about the car." The Critic said.

"Huh, weird." Ma-Ti tossed the note away nonchalantly. "Anyway, I heard you're putting a team together for a quest! Can I come?"

"Oh, ah—yes, about that…" The Critic stammered, trying desperately to come up with an excuse that wasn't completely stupid. "I'd like to have you come along, Ma-Ti—really, I would—buuuut... I really need you here."

"Here?" Ma-Ti replied, perplexed.

"Yes, I need you here to protect…" The Critic stabbed blindly for the right words. "...in order to protect the children and elderly, that's it! There's lots of elderly and children needing protecting!"

"But, there aren't any children or elderly here…" Ma-Ti started.

"That's what makes it a challenge, Ma-Ti. I need you to help me with this." The Critic began. He was on a roll now; the least he could do was see his lie through to the end. "Guarding children and the elderly is so… so _challenging_, that I can't trust it to anyone other than you. You don't understand my plight."

"No. I really don't," Ma-Ti frowned. He was beginning to catch on…

"That's okay, I don't either. So!" The Critic clapped his hands together, then clamped them down onto Ma-Ti's shoulders. "Let's both just say we're even and go our separate ways. We can forget the whole nasty business that happened roughly a year ago and never speak of it again, and we certainly won't question each other's feeble, half-baked attempts to distract you—us!—from nonexistent diabolical plans, eh?"

"…What?"

"Lovely weather we're having."

"Yeah, I guess. But Critic!" Ma-Ti cried suddenly. "You don't have anyone to represent Heart on your team!"

He produced his left hand. On his ring finger there sat a small golden band with a ruby-colored gem set into it. "It's one of the most important forces in the entire universe! You can't possibly survive without it!"

"Don't you think I know that, Ma-Ti?" The Critic countered. "Don't you think I'd give anything to have you on my side, fighting the good fight?"

"Then why not let me join?"

"I can't! We have too many, our pack mules are overloaded as it is!"

"But if you just got rid of JewWario—"

"He's too important! He's in charge of distracting the enemy!"

"What about Film Brain?"

"Didn't you see him earlier? He's my slave-boy!"

"Marzgurl?"

"Eyecandy for the men! Damn it, Ma-Ti, this can't work! We've both gone in two separate directions! I have chosen the life I lead, and you have chosen yours! I know it sound complex, confusing, even pointless and manipulative to a certain extent, but believe me when I say that nothing—nothing!—will change that, Ma-Ti. Nothing."

He brought Ma-Ti even closer. "Will you do it, Ma-Ti? Will you answer nothing's call?"

"Is nothing… something?"

"It's everything."

"Wow…"

"So help me help you help me do this, Ma-Ti! Let's make this happen!"

"Yes."

"Let's make this happen tonight!"

"Yes!"

"Now get out there and show those women and children what you're made of, you little pop-tart!"

"Children and elderly!"

"Whatever!"

"RAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" With a scream of rage/devotion/confusion, Ma-Ti ran from the bedroom. The Critic shut the door on him, sighing in relief. Odd, he thought. He'd expected Ma-Ti to put up more of a fight, and not just go along with whatever had been said last like the rest of the mental lightweights that he was working with. Ma-Ti was usually more self-aware than that. Oh well. At least he was preoccupied for the time being, and he still didn't suspect a thing.

Suddenly, Ma-Ti's head popped back into the room. The Critic jumped ten feet into the air.

"Say Critic, you aren't trying to get rid of me so you can get revenge on the rest of the reviewers by stabbing them in the back, are you?"

"Why of course not, Ma-Ti," The Critic replied.

"Okay. Just wondering." Ma-Ti's head disappeared again.

Relieved, The Critic turned back to the Master Sword still lying on the bed. Despite its many glaring faults, it was still a good enough sword. He picked it up again. Suddenly, he noticed a small piece of green cloth lying on the floor. He picked that up as well. It was a cap, a dark green Phrygian cap like the ones Smurfs wore. He let it dangle from his fingers serenely, inspecting it closely for moth holes. It looked clean enough to use. He looked towards the closet. Inside it there was a green shirt on a thin wire hanger. He looked towards the dresser. Some old green pants were sticking out of it haphazardly. He looked down. Brown, lace up boots stuck out from underneath the bed.

And all at once, The Critic had his costume.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **I consider _Suburban Knights_ a sequel to _Kickassia_, so Ma-Ti is kind of downgraded from his position in the last story. Other than that, nothing else to report, other than The Critic is still a backstabbing loon plotting his revenge on the team. But we all already knew that, didn't we?

5/5: Sorry about the lack of updates. AP finals are next week. I'll try and get something out by Mother's Day.

-Xoanon


	6. Part 1, Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: The Big Dress-Up Scene**

The sun rose placidly over Chicago the next morning. Its warm tendrils spread out over the lake, over downtown, over the copycat homes of suburbia that lay beyond it, over schools and businesses, stretching all the way to the distant horizon in the west. On the useless fens and parks of these neighborhoods everything lay quiet. Beyond the endless rings of civilization lay the secluded exurbs of unused land and wild woods that had not yet been divvied up for use, raked over, excavated, and then entombed in concrete. This land was still virgin, as virgin as it could be with the encroaching roads, bike paths and power wires that crisscrossed it. The air was still cool and crisp here; the sun's rays could not yet penetrate the thick branches of the trees.

In that quiet dawn, something came crunching through the woods. It was the dark hitchhiker. He had reached his destination, coming from afar, from barely recognizable ancient lands and over the wide ocean, in modes of transportation impossibly foreign and sickening to him. Now his tribulations would soon be rewarded. His destiny lay here, in this twisted desiccate landscape constructed of plywood and concrete, with the prize that would take back this dying world. There was but one trial left for him to conquer, the final seconds ticking away after eons of planning and waiting.

_How long will it take them? _he thought._ How long? _

The silent woods held no answer.

* * *

The Nostalgia Critic stood triumphantly at the top of the staircase. He felt wonderful, oddly enough; after a long night's sleep he was completely rested, exhilarated, and ready to begin. He was dressed all in green from his cap to his trousers, Master Sword and sheath tied to one side, pointy plastic elfin ears jammed onto the tips of his human ears. He was still wearing his Nostalgia Critic tie, but no longer was he a sad, angry little man trapped inside a house filled to the brim with every bad movie ever put onto celluloid. Now he was a strong, skilled individual, the man every child alive in the 1980s wanted to grow up to be. He was now **LINK**; master swordsman, adventurer, and blue-balled rescuer to the stars!

With gusto he drew his blade, almost hearing an eight-bit rendition of the _Legend of Zelda_ theme song blaring in the background behind him. He leapt down the stairs, taking them two at a time until he reached the bottom. He made a few quick jabs and slashes with his sword. Brilliant! Sensational! Now if only he'd been able to get the shield…

"Now _this_ is a manly costume!" he said to himself, sheathing his weapon. "I'd love to see what those other pansies came up with on their own!"

"Your costume is not as manly as mine!" There came a sudden, Latin tinged voice from the foyer. The Critic rounded to see Angry Joe step into view. He was also carrying a sword at one side, a rapier. He was dressed in a brown vest, a white lace shirt, leather belt, and was wearing a wig of luxurious black hair on top of his head. He had the determination of a hundred men in his stance; a thousand ravished maidens danced in his eyes.

"Jesus, Joe, don't scare me like that!" The Critic breathed. Joe brought his rapier up to its full height, and then pointed it directly at The Critic. The Critic squeaked in fear.

"_Hola. Mi nombre no es 'José…'" _

"Uh, English please?"

"Oh, right," Joe corrected. "Hello. My name is not Joe. My name is **INIGO MONTOYA**. You killed my brother…"

"Father."

"Father. Prepare to die."

"...That's nice, Joe. Just don't do that!" The Critic lowered Joe's rapier, which now looked far less threatening and more like a plastic prop now that he'd seen it up close.

"Why not, man? You said we have to get into it." Joe replied, pronouncing the "h" in "have" as more of a "j" sound.

"I know, but we have to have priorities! We can't have every tights wearing idiot in the group just sneak in here and announce their characters like that! It would take forever!"

"FOR THE VALAR!" Spoony screamed, leaping into the foyer. Both Joe and The Critic jumped. He was dressed in a grey robe and hat, carried a walking stick covered in electrical tape, and had somehow grown a flowing white beard in only one night. It was blindingly obvious that he was now **GANDALF**, noblest of the Valar and member of the Fellowship of the Ring destined to wipe Sauron and his evil from Middle Earth, et cetera et cetera.

"I am the servant of the Secret Fire! Wielder of the Flame of Anor! _Dark fire will not avail you, FLAME OF UDÚN!_"

Fuming, The Critic stepped forward and grabbed hold of Spoony's beard. With a twang, he let it snap backwards on its elastic into his face. Spoony yelped in pain.

"Knock before you come in next time, Dumbledore!" he snarked. A muffled "go back to the shadow" was Spoony's response.

"Alright, is anybody else already here?" The Critic asked.

"Yes," came a voice, followed by several shushes. "I mean, no!"

"Get out here…" The Critic said tiredly, waving his hand.

"We'd prefer it if you called our names out first," said a Linkara-like voice.

"Yeah, it's more dramatic that way," a Snob-esque voice complimented.

"Fine! Linkara, go!" The Critic gesticulated. Linkara complied, stepping genteelly into view. He was now decked out in a full suite of knightly armor from the days of yore, a crest of a wall and hat set on fire emblazoned on the chestplate. On his face he'd penciled in a beard of black pen strokes. His hat and glasses were missing. No one present in the room had any idea who the hell he was supposed to be.

"I must remind you, Critic," he said, in an accent most likely meant to be received something-or-other, "that I am a civilized man, with… occasional lapses."

"Are you some sort of Monty Python sketch or something?" The Critic replied unbelievingly.

"I, good sir, am **KING ARTHUR**, as played by the noble Sir Richard Harris."

"Actually, I don't think he was ever knighted," The Critic said.

"Kind of ironic, really," Spoony cut in.

"…_acted_ as such in one of the greatest movies ever made: Camelot, the 1967 version based off the musical of the same name." Linkara continued unabated, head raised high enough for someone to slit his throat with a blade if they so wished. The others were unimpressed, and sorely tempted to give him a good whacking for his troubles.

"What's the Elvish word for 'prat'?" Spoony asked severely.

"Have at thee, foul villain!" Linkara rushed at Spoony, who had already drawn his staff up to protect himself. The two whacked their props together angrily before The Critic could pull them apart.

"Save it for Broadway!" he shouted, already hoping he hadn't gotten himself into something far bigger than he could handle. "Alright, now where's The Nostalgia Chick?"

At those words, a bright light permeated the entire room. The four turned to face it, shielding their eyes from the effect that was now blinding them. A radiant maiden floated in on her tiptoes. It was The Chick dressed in a flowing white off-the-shoulder gown, hair down about her shoulders, wearing the pendant of some bizarre Elder God. She opened her mouth, and a language as old as time and as beautiful as the heavens themselves spilled out from her lips:

_Good tidings, ugly men, I come to greet_

_Thee, I am __**ARWEN**__ of the elvish breed _

_Daughter of the most high King Whatshisname_

"What?" the others asked.

_You know, the guy from the Matrix films, lame_

_They now are, but once were extremely cool_

_I speak like this through the whole story, fool _

"…_What?"_ the others repeated.

"Oh just read the damn poem!" The Chick replied angrily, handing them a copy of her script as she turned off the halogen lamp she'd been carrying. They paused to read it for a second, then nodded in comprehension.

"Oh, now I get it," Linkara said. "Really painful rhyme scheme, though."

"Yes, yes, very intellectual. Who's next?" The Critic asked.

Suddenly, the living room shook with the tramping of savage feet in leather sandals. A titan strode into the room, naked save for a fur cape tied round his shoulders and (thankfully) a loincloth made of leather pleating. He carried a large broadsword, and wore a ring of forged gold upon his brow that tamed a forest of black hair. He was steely eyed, looking as if he were determined to vanquish his foes and then eat all the meat and drink all the ale within a hundred mile radius in celebration.

He hefted his sword into the air and yelled his battle cry: "CROM."

The others froze in vague discomfort. Benzaie stepped further into his new domain.

"Ask me who I am," he boomed in a Germanesque accent.

"Who… are you?" Linkara asked him.

"I. Am. **CONAN**. Ask me what is best in life."

"What is best in life?" Joe replied.

"To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentations of their women." He turned to The Chick. "Present company excluded."

"It's cool," The Chick responded.

"I like it! A Frenchman playing an Austrian!" The Critic marveled. "It will most surely confuse the enemy, very nice! Now who else is there?"

"How about Sage?" Spoony put forth. There came a lion's roar from behind the group, and they turned to witness the coming of their newfound ally as he—Sage entered dressed in a child's lion costume, one that looked a few sizes too small. His face was nevertheless prideful, almost knowing, with a serenity that only the word of a higher power could bestow upon him. He addressed the group with a wave of his hand/paw:

"Greetings, sons of Adam, daughters of Eve. I am **KING ASLAN**," he uttered solemnly. The others stood there utterly silent for three seconds, and then burst into peals of laughter. Sage folded his arms disappointedly.

"Not cool, guys. Not cool," he grumbled. "I know a bunch of people who are definitely getting unused body parts in the mail this Christmas."

"Oh I dunno, As-man, I don't think ya got the NOIVE!" The Critic howled.

"C'mon, Critic, all he needs is some courage!" Spoony chimed in, doubled over and leaning on his staff for support.

"Seriously guys, knock it off!" Sage shouted. "I actually like this character! I just couldn't find the right costume!"

"Don't worry, Sage, they'll forget about it when they see my costume…" there came an Eeyore-like voice from the kitchen. Everyone turned again to see someone step out from behind the dividing wall. He was dressed in a grey sweatshirt, the same color as his painted face, which was covered in what looked like a colony of calcified boils, also colored grey.

"What the hell?" came The Critic's apt response. "Phelous, is that you?"

"_No, Critic, it's the __**ROCKBITER**__, from _The Never-Ending Story." Phelous growled, suddenly going cross-eyed. Everyone in the room took a half-step backwards.

"What kind of costume is that? You look like a bunch of elephant turds glued together!" The Critic prodded.

"_Well my little friends think I look nice! Don't you?" _Phelous produced two action figures in his hands. They were much smaller than him, but he looked at them as if they were his only friends in the world. _"These are my little friends! They've come to help stop The Nothing! Say hello to my little friends!" _

Everyone took another half-step back.

"Very nice, A for effort," The Critic replied nervously. "Anyway—"

"_I. SAID. SAY. HELLO." _Phelous repeated, stepping directly up to The Critic and holding the action figures at eye level with him. The Critic, now completely sure that he'd gotten himself into something far bigger than he could handle, gave the small red Power Ranger near his left eye a little pat. "Hello, nice to meet you, you little… inanimate objects," he squeaked.

"_They'll be watching you, Critic," _Phelous breathed, stepping backwards again. _"They think you're working for The Nothing. And if you are…"_

"Okay, moving on! Where's Marzgurl?"

The Critic suddenly felt teeth sinking into his leg. He yelped, instinctively shying away from the source of the pain. Marzgurl leapt up to route him, spear in hand. She was dressed in a white tunic, with a tooth necklace and small black headband. She was decked out in red face paint as well, two downward pointing triangles on each cheek.

"_Watashi wa hanbuno no tohanbuno okami _**MONONOKE**_ himedesu, okami sama Gillian Anderson no musmedesu," _she intoned breathlessly.

"…You're going to talk like that the entire time?" The Critic asked.

"_Hai!"_ Marzgurl responded happily. She then leapt forward and bit down on The Critic's arm. The Critic flailed backwards wildly, desperately trying to whack her with his Master Sword. After numerous repeated blows, she finally let go.

"Animal rights nut!" The Critic called after her as she slinked off. "Next!"

"_Expecto_ torrobutussin!", came some sort of magical curse word. Luke strode in haughtily, carrying a willow stick carefully filled down into a magic wand. "Come on everyone, magic is in the air!" He grinned and pocketed his wand in a flowing black robe, underneath which he wore a white shirt and striped club tie. He wore glasses that were taped together in the middle, and had painted a thin red scar shaped like a lightning bolt onto his forehead. Overnight, Luke had transformed into the boy who lived, **HA**—

"Hey!" Film Brain cried, stumbling in behind him dressed in a slightly different grey sweater and folded cape ensemble and carrying some weird bendy thing as his wand. "You copycat! I was going to be **HARRY POTTER**!"

"What? Says who?" Luke shot back.

"Says I! Go change!"

"I'm not going to change! I picked out this costume weeks ago!"

"Well I made mine!"

"That thing? It looks like an old Halloween costume!"

"It _is_ an old Haloween costume, Mountie Boy!"

"Sure looks like it, Union Jerk!"

_"Urusai!"_ Marzgurl shouted, silencing the two of them.

"Hey hey hey, people!" The Critic attempted to restore the peace. "We've got two Lord of the Rings costumes and possibly two Narnia costumes! There's room for diversity!"

"What?" The Chick asked.

"You look kinda like the older sister," The Critic returned. "So it doesn't matter, we can have two Harry Potters!"

"Oh come on, he shouldn't even qualify!" Film Brain complained. "I'm the one who's actually British! I'm the genuine article, bad teeth, stuffiness and everything!"

"Big deal, I'm Canadian. It's close enough," Luke replied.

"That's as British as being Turkish, you tit!"

"What're you talkin' aboot?"

_"IT'S ABOUT, YOU TWAT!"_

"Okay, okay, let's just all agree that you both look equally stupid! Happy?" The Critic compromised.

"But I look stupid_er_, right?" Film Brain hoped.

"Oh yeah, totally," The Critic agreed. "It's the hair." Film Brain was happy enough to concede, nodding proudly.

"Now where's Cinema Snob?" The Critic asked. A whip crack, followed by the sound of something breaking, split the air. Everyone rotated again to see the Cinema Snob decked out in a leather jacket and hat and carrying a bullwhip whose end had just passed through the front window. He was sheepishly reeling it in, trying to conceal the damage with a winning smile.

"Too bad the Hovitos don't know you like I do, Critic," he drawled casually.

"Really, **INDIANA JONES**?" Spoony asked. "Not somebody from some weird fetish movie only thirteen people have ever seen?"

"That's not even a fantasy character!" The Critic accused.

"First of all, there're only so many porno epics, philistine," The Snob sniffed. "Second, Indiana Jones is quest based, so it still counts. And third: The Ark of the Covenant, Kali Maa, and the Holy Grail. Case closed. Besides, anyone who can survive a nuclear explosion in a refrigerator is definitely some kind of fantasy character, no matter what your reckoning."

"Case dismissed. Obscurus Lupa?"

A butterfly of a woman drifted into the room on what seemed like a skirt of air. She cooed and ahhed at nothing in particular, stroking the backs of chairs as well as the back of The Cinema Snob, who leapt half a foot to the left of her in surprise. The rest of the group watched in amusement as The Critic tried to reconcile his hatred of powerless women with the sight of someone like Lupa in a floor length gown reminiscent of that of **SNOW WHITE**.

"Someday my prince will come to rescue me!" she sighed dreamily.

"What is with you latecomers? It's fantasy based costumes, not fairy tales!" The Critic grumbled.

"Oh right, because fairy tales are soooo based in reality," Lupa countered grumpily. "I mean, _weality," s_he hastily corrected in her saccharine accent.

"It's all about giving in to the dreams of your imagination!" Eight Bit Mickey cried, soaring majestically around the group with arms outstretched. He was dressed in a green tunic and forester's hat, still wearing his eight bit tie. "Come along everyone! Let your dreams soar away, off to Never-never-land!"

"Oh Jesus, what the fuck…" The Critic moaned, putting a hand over his eyes.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **And the first half of the big establishing characters scene is finished. Coupled with finals, Marzgurl's Japanese was the biggest hurdle; it's as accurate as Google Translate will allow it to be at the moment. If anyone speaks Japanese and knows a more accurate Romanization, feel free to share it and I'll make the approrpriate corrections. Thanks.

-Xoanon


	7. Part 1, Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Revenge of the Big Dress-Up Scene**

"Alright, let me guess," The Snob mock-questioned while The Critic silently wept into his hands. "You're supposed to be...?"

"I'm** PETER PAN**, the little flying rapscallion who will never, ever grow up!" Mickey finished, standing on his tiptoes in the middle of the group. "Aren't I just so whimsical?"

"I would've gone for flamboyant, but whimsical's good too," Linkara replied. Less than a second later he was prone on the floor. Mickey had somehow leapt onto him with lightning speed and arrested his right leg in a mangling death grip.

"YOU WANNA GO, MAN? HUH?" he screamed into Linkara's ear. "YOU WANNA GO THREE ROUNDS WITH IRON PETE THE PUNISHER? WELL BRING IT, CHUMP!"

"_Good, good, my diminutive apprentice!" _Paw hissed, suddenly appearing at The Critic's side. _"I require every last drop of your rage! EVERY LAST DROP! FEED ME YOUR RAAAAAAGE, MY APPRENTICE!" _He then proceeded to murmur through his teeth like Hannibal Lecter, fanning the invisible rage fumes at himself with all the finesse of a poorly-trained stage actor.

"Wow, **PROFION** from _Dungeons and Dragons_?" Luke queried. "Weird choice, dude."

"_Does that upset you, young wizard?" _Paw growled suddenly, rounding on Luke and grabbing hold of his pliable Canadian face in one hand. _"I could use that, you know. I could use every OUNCE of your anger, your grief, your slight annoyance! Feeed meeee…" _He hissed again, doing the same fanning motion as before.

"I don't want to ride with him," Luke said quietly.

"Hey everybody, check me out!" Todd said happily, ignoring the chaos present and striding into the room with pride. He was dressed all in black, wearing a lace up shirt open to mid-chest, black leather pants, and black clodhopper boots. In one hand he carried a rapier much like the one Joe wielded. Curiously, he had managed to find a mask that looked mysteriously like the one he'd been wearing yesterday, only now it looked much more fitting as a black bandana which covered the top half of his face.

"Yes, dear friends! Tis' I! **THE** **DREAD PIRATE ROBERTS**." He struck a heroic pose, his saber drawn. The others stared blankly at him.

"…From _The Princess Bride_?" Todd injected. The others still drew a collective blank. Crestfallen, Todd drooped back into his usual slouching stance.

"The kickass adventurer guy that's always really awesome and that always gets the girl in the end," he stated blandly. At this, everyone else suddenly remembered the movie and its dashing anti-hero. No one seemed to notice the incredibly tall, Elvish-looking man in a red wig, brown cape and white shirt that stepped into the room.

"Oh, hey Tom!" Mickey called out happily, forgetting that a mere moment ago he'd nearly snapped Linkara's leg in two. "Are you supposed to be… a really tall Frodo Baggins?"

"What? Isn't it obvious?" Tom asked, looking around the room for support. "Nobody knows who I am?"

"Are you Michael Jordan in a hobbit costume?" The Critic questioned.

"I'm **WILLOW**," Tom shrugged.

"…Sure! It's so obvious now, Willow!" The Critic lied. "Alright, that's nearly all of the waking nightmares accounted for. The only one that's left is JewWario!"

The Critic turned to the foyer. "JewWario! Get in here, you Semitic devil you!"

With a sudden gong, JewWario strode magnificently into the living room. He was wearing a flowing white chemise, complete with chest-length cravat and a sparkling black waistcoat thrown on over top of it. His hair had been drawn up into a strange mullet-like coif; he wore blue eye shadow with black accents. In one hand he carried a small translucent orb, which he clutched tightly in thin, surprisingly well-manicured fingers. He looked rather dashing, like a veteran stage performer with a flair for the dramatic and a deep passion for the surreal.

"Apologies, all. I was busy doing my dance, magic dance," he replied coolly. "Hope you all didn't start the party without me."

"Oh my God, you're **DAVID BOWIE FROM LABRYNTH**…" The Critic groaned, horrified.

"Wait, does that mean he has the—?" Mickey looked down. "OH GROSS!"

On cue, every person in attendance gazed at the region lying just south of JewWario's sparkling torso. He was wearing black tights—very, very tight and very revealing black tights that looked as if something the exact size of a burrito had been shoved into them. Instantly, every male in attendance shielded their eyes in disgust, turning away in a desperate attempt to unsee what they had just seen. In contrast, the ladies in the room were overjoyed, and a tad flustered, at the scene. It wasn't every day one could see an accurate-to-scale replica of the genitals of one of the greatest rock stars alive.

"Well, there's no need to be prudish," JewWario sniffed. "I can't help it if I want to flaunt what I've got." He accentuated his boast with a thrust of his pelvis in their general direction, nearly causing Linkara to throw up his breakfast. The ladies swarmed him immediately afterwards.

"Y'know, I've always wanted to get to know your music better…" The Chick crooned, hanging onto one of JewWario's sparkly arms with all her strength. "I consider _Ziggy Stardust _a masterpiece for the ages."

"That's quite all right, my dear. I prefer _Heroes _myself," JewWario replied, holding the orb nonchalantly. "Here, care to hold my ball for a tick?"

"Oh God yes!" The Chick cried, grasping for it longingly.

"OKAY, WE GET IT!" The Critic yelled, arms waving. "He's got a huge package! Geez! Now can we please get on with this?"

As ordered, the ladies dispersed, along with a slightly miffed JewWario. He fell into line with the others, twirling his ball furiously. The Critic, gathering up the remnants of his patience, leapt to the front of the group. This was it. This was the culmination of this entire farcical charade, the make or break moment for all his long months of scheming. All he had to do was give one last rousting speech that would seal the deal and they would be off.

"Alright, people! You all look epically ridiculous!" he boomed. "Now this is what I was talking about! This is the kind of team that will get us loot!"

"We'd better get started, then! This beard itches like a motherfucker!" Spoony shot back.

"These tights are riding up!" Eight Bit Mickey added.

"My loincloth chafes me!" Benzaie complained.

"Patience, people, that's not important right now!" The Critic calmed the crowd. "We can't just rush into this willy-nilly; the first thing we need is a leader, someone who can lead the way! Someone bold and daring, competent and accomplished!"

"How about Linkara?" Luke voted.

"Benzaie!" Handsome Tom offered.

"I nominate JewWario!" Lupa, Marzgurl and The Chick all shouted at the same time.

"Film Brain! Pick Film Brain!" Film Brain cried.

"NO! I was talking about me!" The Critic shouted. All at once, there came a loud groan from everyone in attendance.

"Oh c'mon, guys!" The Critic whined indignantly. "You can't count me out because of one lousy military campaign slash dictatorial clusterfuck! It's all behind me! I've changed, really!"

"Oh sure, I'm willing to bet!" The Snob retaliated coldly. "It's not going to be that easy this time, Critic. You might think we're a bunch of morons, but we still remember all the crap you did to us back in Molossia."

"Oh come on, what did I do that was so awful?" The Critic asked innocently.

"You banished me to the depths of Nevada! It was a nightmare out there, nothing but sand and a bunch of shitty casinos!"

"Yeah! And you tried to kill Santa Christ!" Film Brain added.

"He came back, didn't he?" The Critic countered.

"He was still dead for three days! It counts!"

"Alright, fine!" The Critic sighed. "Look, guys, I know I've made some mistakes in the past—"

"A _lot_ of mistakes…" Linkara cut in.

"Okay, a lot! And I'm also willing to admit that I haven't always been the easiest person to get along with, but I'm telling you I've really moved on. I swear! Kickassia was a bad idea; I'm the first person to admit that, but you all need to shut up for a few seconds and admit this to yourselves: it had a really damn good leader before everything went to crap. C'mon, admit it! You guys were really excited about Kickassia, weren't you? Remember the speech about the Nazis?"

"Yeah, that _was_ a pretty good speech," Spoony admitted.

"I still remember the part about Nazis," Film Brain replied, wiping a tear from his eye.

"Exactly! And you also have to remember the Nazi's weren't just Nazis!" The Critic continued. "You all have to remember that deep down—deep down in their evil jackboots made of evil—that they were just ordinary Germans! And just like the Germans, everybody makes mistakes!"

And just like that time that had occurred so many days ago, the reviewers listened. Surprisingly, this argument somehow made sense to the jaded, world-weary souls that stood inside that faded living room. True, the Critic may have been a nutjob, and a truly bastardly nutjob at that, but deep down he was still a human being, and human beings could change, couldn't they?

The Critic put a fist into one hand definitively. "And that's just what I am now, a dirty, dirty kraut bastard standing before you and begging for your forgiveness! Stick with me, reviewers, and you can't possibly lose! You need someone like me! Someone who's a visionary!"

"Yeah!" the assembled group cried in triumph.

"Someone bold and daring!" The Critic shouted.

"Yeah!" the assembled group cried again.

"Someone who has the only copies of the map and who originally thought up the idea in the first place!" The Critic screamed, fist raised high in the air.

"Yeah, whatever!" the group shouted back. "You're the leader! Get on with it!"

"In a minute, I'm not done!" The Critic replied. "And I promise to all of you that nothing will ever lead me astray ever again! But I can't do this alone; I need everyone's support on this, and I mean everyone's! I can lead you—and I promise to lead you well—but I can only do it if each and every one of you is absolutely, one hundred percent ready and rearing to go with me! ARE YOU ALL READY?"

A mighty roar went up from everyone in attendance. They were ready.

"Okay then, everybody, let's get started!"

* * *

**Author's Notes: **And so concludes the big dress-up scene. Finals are finished, thank God, so expect the last part of Part I sometime this week. Thanks for reading.

-Xoanon


	8. Part 1, Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: The Sundering of the Awesome-teers**

It was on a field of valor and glory that The Nostalgia Critic first assembled his ensemble of heroes to begin the search for Malachite's Hand, and it was there that the assembled ensemble began their long and arduous quest for the scores of glory, gold and immortality the relic would bring. More literally, it took place on the dingy drainage field just outside The Critic's house, which, coincidentally enough, was the starting point of the map. In full garb underneath grey, rain-promising skies they stood, their strength sapped and their bodies chilled to the bone by the wind. A few of them were regretting wearing sheer tights; Benzaie's leather skirt had blown up over his head twice. All in all, the mood of goodwill and friendship that had been garnered by the previously-heard epic speech was already beginning to wear thin.

The Critic was unfazed by all of this, even though seeing Benzaie's French Connection had been pretty gross. He stood in front of his team boldly with arms raised, legs akimbo, maps grasped tight in his hands and Master Sword dangling at his side. He felt grand, absolutely grand. The anxiety, paranoia and disgust he'd felt earlier had by now melted away entirely. Now, if only he could figure out how exactly to start the stupid journey in the first place...

"Alright, according to this map this is the only marked starting point for the game," he said, gesturing around the tiny field rather unconvincingly. "By God, it's a beautiful desolate wilderness, isn't it? Right?"

"Not really," Benzie replied. "There's a bunch of houses all around us and a major thoroughfare on either side. Look, there're cars coming by right now."

As he spoke, two cars sped past the field. Out the window one driver called: "Get a job, freaks!"

"Well, it doesn't matter! This is a great place to start! Good sturdy land, access to the river for… river-ing, nearby the smithy for to forge, uh, weapons and stuff, and…"

The Critic sighed heavily. "Okay, this is going to be annoying."

"Just give it a while, Critic. It'll come." Linkara reassured.

"Fine, whatever. Now, according to the map there're two paths we can take to the gauntlet, so we'll split up into two teams." He made a sharp invisible slice right down the middle of the group. "The left side is Team One. The right side, Team Two. No arguments."

"I have to be on a team with Lord Dorksalot?" Luke cried, gesturing to Film Brain.

"I have to side with Dudley Douchebag?" Film Brain retaliated, doing the same to Luke.

"We can't go with JewWario?" Lupa and The Chick cried in unison.

"NO ARGUMENTS! GET MOVING!" The Critic silenced. Quickly, curtly and with much grumbling the teams separated. In Team Two, Luke and Film Brain begrudgingly stood by one another, while Marzgurl happily sidled her arm around JewWario's to the annoyance of her lady friends. The Critic continued on:

"Now, I've made a Xerox copy of the map for myself and Team One—and I've ripped it up so it still looks all cool and authentic—so I'm giving the original map to Team Two."

"Why? What'd you do to it?" Spoony questioned.

"Nothing, it's just the original map," The Critic replied, confused.

"Did you poison it or something?" The Snob queried.

"_Is it pure evil?" _Paw asked happily.

"Why are we Team Two?" Todd asked indignantly.

"It's just the original map! There's nothing special or magical about it!" The Critic shouted, shoving it into Spoony's hands.

"Very well then, Master Critic. I shall gladly receive this map," Spoony rejoined courteously, regaining his Gandalfian composure. "May the shining light of Eärendil shine forever upon you and your kin."

"Shut up," The Critic responded. "Alright, people, we are on the verge of a great adventure, and I really mean that this time! Seriously! If by some horrifying miracle we somehow manage to pull this off, our names will be recorded in the book of history for all time to come, or until history comes to a violent and bloody end in a global thermonuclear war or horrifying disease outbreak of some kind! Either way, we'll at least get something!"

"HOORAY!"

"We are going to be legends!"

"HOORAY!"

"We are going to be gods!"

"HOORAY!"

"Now let's get out there and go LARPing!"

"Heart!"

The group fell silent. They all turned at once to stare at the young interloper that had anxiously stridden onto the field in the middle of The Critic's speech. He held his brown arm high, the odd gemstone in his ring shining brightly despite the fact that there was no sunlight. He had a look of determination on his face, the face that told everyone assembled there that he was ready for the epic journey ahead, that he was ready for any task or obstacle. The Critic wore a similar face, mixed with an expression that said "oh Jesus is he really doing this?" He had hoped to have gotten started before Ma-Ti came back that morning from his paper route. He'd failed.

"Critic! I'm glad I caught you! I thought I could be of some help!" Ma-Ti beamed at The Critic. The rest of the group avoided his gaze, some muttering barely-heard phrases about the uselessness of "heart" as a helpful power. The Critic stepped forward determinedly. He was going to fix this once and for all.

"Look, Ma-Ti," he said pointedly through half-clenched teeth, grabbing his friend lightly, yet forcefully, by the collar of his shirt. "It's not that we don't want you to come with us. Really, it's not. It's not that we don't want you to come because your powers are, for lack of a better description, absolutely fucking useless…"

"It's not?" Sage said quizically. He was silenced by an elbow in the ribs from Lupa.

"It's just that… really, there's so much more that you could be doing here." The Critic lowered Ma-Ti's upraised arm gently. "We need you here, Ma-Ti. We really do."

"But what can I do here, Critic?" Ma-Ti replied crestfallenly. "I want to help, but how can I help if I'm not with you guys?"

The Critic, for once, didn't have a slick answer prepared. Jaw working silently, his brain backfired as he struggled to come up with a solution that wasn't an absolute shit on the face of logic and reasoning. Finally, he blurted out:

"Oh my contact lens fell out!" The Chick blurted out instead. "Oh woe is me, I will not be able to see out of my left eye! Can't anyone help me?"

"Anyone who has nothing better to do…?" she prodded. The Critic's face lit up at the suggestion.

"That's it! I mean, uh, yes, that's it," he gestured at The Chick. "Her contact lens, Ma-Ti. She just can't see without it!"

"Oh gee, that's terrible…" Ma-Ti replied.

"So it's settled, you'll stay here and look for it then," The Critic smiled.

"Sure!"

"Great. Get on it." The Critic tripped Ma-Ti, sending him crashing to the ground. He stepped over him and retook his place at the head of both groups.

"Thanks, Critic. You are a true friend," Ma-Ti mumbled through a mouthful of field.

"No talking while you're searching," The Critic said, redrawing his sword. "As for everyone else, you will remain in your two teams and we will find treasure! But first, I think it would be great if everyone lined up single file and trekked over that small hillock over yonder, so as to display the true strength of our united fellowship!"

"Why?" Todd asked.

"Because it will symbolize our unity, for even though we are separating, and sundering the very fellowship we have founded, we will all still be together in spirit!"

"_Why would we do that?"_ Phelous growled in his Rockbiter voice.

"…Because doing so will strengthen our bonds, as we go our separate ways and ride along the dangerous ways to our potential ends! Fair Glory may be close at hand, but behind her lies the grim specter of Death, and behind him lies Doom!"

"How is bondage going to help us?" Mickey inquired warily.

"In our darkest hour…"

"It's daytime," Linkara interrupted.

"Though something evil may lurk near—"

"There's no evil in Naperville, other than the crafts fair at City Hall," The Snob said definitively.

"But! If! We! Have! But! One! Life! To! Live!" The Critic panted angrily.

"You stole that from Patrick Henry!" Paw accused.

_"OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE, THE TRAILER!"_ The Critic screamed.

"The trailer?" everyone parroted.

"The trailer, we're doing it for the goddamn trailer for _Suburban Knights_! We have to trek over that hill over there, so we can get the shots we need for the trailer, so it'll look really cool and epic, so we can then release that trailer on our website so a bunch people will watch this piece of crap and then pick apart every aspect of it on the site's forums! That trailer!"

"Oh yeah, I get it now," Spoony said. The others nodded in agreement.

"Good. Glad we're all on the same page," The Critic calmed himself. "Now—"

"Wait, isn't this the novelization of _Suburban Knights_?" Luke questioned.

"It'll still sound cool in prose! Line up!"

And so the lining up did commence quickly, as the sundering of the Awesome-teers did begin for the first and final time. The soldiers all said their goodbyes; some were tearful, some prosaic, others still bromantic. All were heartfelt, and all were made in the deepest friendship one could give to another. They were now ready. At a wave of The Critic's sword, they began their march across the dim plains, the hill in front of them becoming the mountain of their ascension to glory, gold, and the gauntlet. Slowly, they left their staging arena, the proud birthing area of epicness, leaving nothing behind them but trampled grass and the odorous stench of destiny. As they left, Ma-Ti cried out his final farewell at the heroes' non-retreat:

"Good luck, you warriors of virtue!"

"Keep searching!" The Critic called from the front. He lead the way up the grassy knoll, the others dutifully following. They were no longer nerds, or man-children, or lady-gals occupying the bottom rung of the lowest caliber of the outermost circuit of modern society. They had now become god-dweebs, and goddess-dinguses. They were now those about whom epic poetry was written in the olden times, to whom sonnets and plays of excellent quality had been dedicated since time immemorial. Empires rose and fell at their command; kings and queens would give them their service and their lives in a heartbeat; entire armies would follow them into any abyss; the common folk would stick by them through dearth and death. They did not just command, they lead. They did not just fight, they won. They did not just partake in the art of cosplay, they _were_ cosplay itself.

"Ladies and gentlemen, begin epic trailer shot!" The Critic cried. The others did so, each champion cresting the hill and looking far off into the imaginary distance in turn. Their faces were a throbbing multitude of emotions: grim, haughty, sultry, whimsical, wise, pensive, hammy, tough and vaguely threatening. Their quest for the magic gauntlet, Malachite's Hand, was finally underway. Nothing would stop them now. Absolutely nothing.

"Aaaaaand… split!" At The Critic's command, the teams went their separate ways. Team Two, realizing suddenly that they were now heading the wrong way, crossed back over the shot and sped in the direction opposite The Critic and Team One. Team One continued on their present path, heads held aloft and proud against the iron grey sky.

A few moments later, Spoony jogged back briefly to retrieve his hat, which had blown off. He then sprinted back to his own team. The deed was done. They were all on their way to victory.

The field stood empty now, completely quiet except for the silent fury of Ma-Ti beginning his own epic quest, the search for the lost Contact Lens of Arwen. His focus was on an exceedingly small patch of grass right beneath where The Chick had stood moments earlier, and with torso bent over the turf he mitted through the blades with minute precision. His diligence was so great, and so nearsighted, that he failed entirely to notice the tall, dark, black-suited figure that was standing on the sidewalk opposite the field. He wore sunglasses and a fedora, and carried a staff of purest ebony. He had watched them assemble from afar, sneered at their feeble attempts at bravado, and seen them off silently over the grassy knoll. Now it was his turn to do the same.

With calm precision he stepped out into the street. The wind, dormant though it had been only moments earlier, now erupted into a strong gale. It seemed to carry him over the asphalt as if he were nothing but a feather, the breeze barely stirring his clothing. He strode casually, peacefully, over the unkempt lawn, ignoring the bustling Indian bent over the grass searching for an imaginary contact lens. He had a much bigger goal in mind. He rose to the top of the knoll and looked down the street at Team Two, the retreating party growing ever smaller in the distance. They were heading for the park. He turned on his heel and began to follow. They were no threat; he could easily subdue them if necessary. They were no match for his power. And if by some chance they managed to best him…

They wouldn't, he thought. There was no "if" in his suppositions, no room for failure or doubt. This had to be done. It was finally going to happen; he would finally achieve his destiny, he would finally have his revenge. Nothing would prevent it. Nothing would stop him.

Absolutely nothing.

_End of Part 1_

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Next week, Part 2 and the journey's beginnings.

-Xoanon


	9. Part 2, Chapter 8

**Part 2: Something Funny, Something to Keep the Story Going**

**Chapter 8: Into the Woods**

Three odd figures stood in the middle of a dirt path. They didn't stir—each one was a motionless statue in the face of the cold and the biting wind. They had been waiting there all that time for a signal, a sign to spur them into action once again. They were waiting for the game to begin.

Their wait was now over.

The call came like lightning to their senses: someone had found the map, had shared it with many others. They were now searching for it; the master's gauntlet was in danger. The time had come to defend it once more. Their heads were raised and their swords were drawn. There was little time to waste. They would deal with these interlopers swiftly…

All at once, the odd figures stepped readily forward into the light of the modern world, ready to fight to defend their master's prize. Ready to kill.

* * *

In the calm embrace of the woods there was silence. It was still early in the day, and under the shade of the trees it was cold. It was very, very cold, so cold that any liquid tossed into the air would instantly freeze and fall back to the earth within the range of a few seconds. It was ball-shatteringly cold, mind-numbingly cold, too cold to even complain about how horrendously cold it was. So far, in terms of epic quests, things were looking rather cheery.

A thin bike path ran through the assembled army of trees, demarcated by an even thinner line of yellow paint. Along this tiny street Team One marched; on one side of the line there strode Handsome Tom, Eight Bit Mickey, The Nostalgia Chick and Sage. On the other side were Linkara, Benzaie, Phelous and Obscurus Lupa. The Critic straddled the middle of the two battalions, his mind focused on the first of the puzzling riddles scrawled onto the map's parchment. It was a total conundrum, to say the least. Rhyming couplets had never been his strongest suite.

"Are you sure you're reading that thing correctly?" Handsome Tom asked concernedly. "We can't afford to get lost out here for too long. We might lose bragging rights if Team Two gets to the gauntlet before us."

"Trust me, Tom. Rhyming couplets are my strong suite," The Critic reassured. "The directions are right here on the first marker: _'Five hundred steps into northern seas, you will enter a field that is filled with trees.'_" He gestured to the stately oaks around them. "This is the only nature preserve within walking distance of the starting point, so this has to be it."

"Good show, Critic!" Mickey cried, "flying" up to join the two of them, his arms outstretched. "I for one am glad to be on this team, the one with the most imagination!"

"Oh sure, right…" The Critic mumbled, not looking up from the map. "Oooh aaah, spooky, magical things, blaarg…" He waved his sword around a bit with his right hand, nearly cutting Linkara's head from his shoulders as he did so.

"_My little friends are having a good time too!" _Phelous rumbled jovially, looking down at the action figures in his stony hands. _"Aren't you, little friends? Enjoy the splendor of a beautiful spring morning!" _

"Uh, Phelous…" Mickey prodded carefully."I think you might be getting into character just a little too much." He held up two fingers with "a little too much" in between them to accent his point.

"_Why whatever do you mean, Peter Pan?" _ Phelous croaked back.

"Nothing… just that, well, you really seem to think those action figures your holding are alive, that's all."

"_But they are alive! How could you say such a thing?" _

"How can they be alive? They're plastic."

"_Don't listen, little friends! He's only joking! Only joking!"_

"Phelous, they're not friends, they're just plastic toys. They aren't alive—"

"_**They're more alive than you." **_Phelous boomed, turning to stare Mickey downwith bloodshoot and bulging eyes. Mickey gulped, wishing that he hadn't pushed the issue further. He could see his compatriot's meaty fingers digging into the plastic coating on the dolls surfaces.

"Okay… sure, Rockbiter. They're alive…" Mickey squeaked comfortingly.

"_You're sure?" _Phelous hissed expectantly. Mickey nodded in the affirmative.

"_Good."_ "Rockbiter" lowered his gigantic hands, his posture stiffened, his eyes still wide. _"Just remember, little boy, they're watching you…"_

Mickey just kept nodding, accelerating his walking speed until he managed to catch up with the comparatively sane Benzaie the Barbarian and The Chick of Rivendell walking just ahead. Benzaie put a comforting arm around the lad's shoulder.

"Fear not, Tinkerbell," he burbled jovially. "The power of Crom will protect you! He is the patron god of the courageous and valorous, and he will fight for you if you so ask."

"And if he doesn't listen?" Mickey replied.

"Then to hell with him!" Benzaie cried, thrusting his sword into the air triumphantly.

"O fairest Critic!" Lupa asked, gliding effortlessly up to the team leader on heels that could crack bone with the proper force applied to them. "Prithee tell me, into what widowing wood of bird and deer have we so sojourned?"

"Hah?" The Critic responded.

"Where're we going?" Lupa repeated.

"I dunno, the map just keeps telling me to go straight," The Critic replied. "Wait, there's something else here in the second half of the riddle: _'To follow the right path without fail, just follow the one that has the best tale…'_"

"So one of the paths in here has a story we should follow?"

"It's probably some kind of stupid pun or something. Keep your eyes peeled for anything suspicious."

"Will do. I'll go search from behind whilst being all enchanted and shit." And with a happy sigh Lupa twirled away. The Critic shook his head as she left; this costume thing was probably a bad idea, he thought to himself. It was just another distraction. The last thing he needed was a bunch of nutbar lunatics keeping him from achieving his true goal: finding that gauntlet and spending the rest of his natural life paying back a few choice individuals who'd had the nerve to send him into rehabilitation. A certain lower circuit courthouse in Forest Glen was definitely going to be getting a very special visit in the near future…

"Critic, If may be sold bold as to propose an activity…" Linkara piped up, snagging The Critic from his revelry of flaming judge's wigs and exploding masonry.

"What is it, Linkara?" The Critic sighed.

"If there's anything a good king knows, it's how to keep up the morale of the troops in the lower order." He gestured plainly to those travelling behind the pair. "Come now; let us all sing songs of the glory of the olden times, of life in days gone by!"

The Critic, along with everyone else in earshot, groaned in symphony with each other.

"Oh come now, t'will be a hoot! I'm sure you all know this old ditty," Linkara opened his mouth, and in a happy and upbeat tenor voice began to sing:

"_A law was made a distant moon ago here—"_

"Knock it off, Pavarotti," The Chick whined. "I'm already getting a migraine already over here."

Undeterred, Linkara changed his tempo and song in a heartbeat:

"_Into the wooooods! Into the wooooods! Into the wo—"_

"Hey, Andrew Lloyd Fucker," The Critic grumbled. "Knock it off with _Spamalot_ or I'll make you into a falsetto."

Another song came forth a mere second afterwards:

"_You're the one that I want (you are the one I want) yoo-hoo-h—OW!" _

In a single quick motion, Benzaie had hefted the hilt of his sword into the back of Linkara's head. With a thud, he fell to the ground. The others trampled over him, ignoring his groans of pain as their boots and heels dug into the ropy flesh of his backside.

"Crom laughs at your pitiful showtunes!" Benzaie called to the semi-conscious Linkara, who was now lying motionless on the pavement behind them.

"Good work, Conanator," The Critic congratulated. "Is that thing made of real metal?"

"Just brass. He'll be up and at it again in a minute or two," Benzaie replied happily.

"He can catch up with us. We're not dragging him along," The Chick groused, rubbing her temples in pain. The team moved faster, attempting to ignore the strains of one last song being wheezed out by their fallen comrade/annoyance:

"_Annah tell you I'm not goin'… yur gonn' love me…"_

The group rounded a bend, and the musical nightmare was over. Linkara had disappeared from sight behind an old, half-dead maple. The team passed through a break in the forest. The sun was shining, beating the frost from the hides of the trees and warming the weary travelers enough for them to continue onwards for at least a few leagues more. They passed a grove of downed elms with trunks moldy and rotted through, their bark peeling off in many places. No one gave them a second thought, except for Sage; he thought he saw something move in the dense detritus underneath, or some small patch of fur caught on a root in the ground. And then he spied it: a small tail barely visible amongst the branches.

"Look yonder, nerdlings!" he intoned, pointing two fingers at it rather than one for some reason. "The tail has but just begun!"

"What?" The Critic replied, turning and walking back to the pile of dead logs.

"That black thing lying there. It looks like the tail of an animal, doesn't it?"

The others rounded back to see it. It was a small mangy black thing peeking out from just behind the mass of wood. Its length was completely straight, like the shaft of an arrow. It did indeed look like the tail of some weird animal, perhaps a dead raccoon or some unlucky house cat caught there in the dead of night.

"Perhaps that was the true tail the map was referring to," Sage said.

"…No, that can't be it," The Critic dismissed the notion. "It's too simple, too unremarkable. It's a riddle on a map to one of the most powerful artifacts in the world, so it either has to be either ungodly complex or make no sense until you've looked it up on the Internet to find out what it actually means."

"Critic, you must trust the signs given to us by divine providence." Sage instructed wisely, placing a fatherly hand on his friend's shoulder. "Remember that you may always take more than one road to achieve your true goals, and win your heart's desire. The path to enlightenment is merely the enlightenment of the path itself."

"I agree. And the way to pain is to nail you in the nads themselves," The Critic curtly responded. Sage quickly took the fatherly hand off his shoulder.

"I think he's right, Critic. It does kinda look like a tail," Mickey squinted. "And although I agree we should nail Sage in the nads, we should go that way first."

"Which way?" The Critic questioned.

"Whichever way it points."

"It's pointing to that clump of poison oak over there! If you wanna walk through that, be my guest!"

"It's pointing to the east. We just need to keep following that direction until we hit another clue!" Handsome Tom cut in.

"_My friends agree! We should follow the tail!"_ Phelous nodded, his friends keeping time at the sides of his head.

"You're all serious? You can't be serious here!" The Critic asked. "We can't just go and follow some stupid thing just because it looks like a tail. We could throw off the whole game!" He started walking towards the thing in order to better prove his point. "And besides, even if it was a tail (which it isn't) then what the hell type of animal could it possibly be connected t—"

Just as The Critic reached for the tail, it disappeared behind the log. The Critic withdrew his fingers with a squeal of surprise. Seconds later, a_ thing_ popped up in its place, something that looked like a cat mixed with the bastard offspring of a rat and a dragon. Like the tail, it too was jet black, with stained yellow fangs and unblinking yellow eyes. It had long whiskers going off in all directions that matched the coarse bristling fur all around its head. Whatever this thing was, it certainly wasn't a trapped housecat. The group stepped up beside The Critic to inspect the tiny monstrosity. A few recoiled once they saw it in detail.

"Halt, puny mortals!" The thing rasped, its pointed mouth flapping loosely with every syllabic intonation. "Go no further! I am the defender of this path!"

"Oh my God, we're in _The Muppets_," The Critic breathed, lapsing into a brief flashback involving a sing-along with Miss Piggy and Kermit the Frog.

"Do not underestimate my appearance, fool!" the creature snarled. "I possess strength far beyond that of your mortal coil, and knowledge far beyond that of your understanding! I know the path to what you seek; you are searching for a power far greater than anything mankind has ever known, a power that, if used, could destroy the entire world as you know it!"

"I have to admit, he's a little funnier than Jeff Dunham," Mickey joked.

"Quiet! I am not through speaking!" the little demon hissed. "You are seeking a power known as Malachite's Hand! The gauntlet of infinite power! The Worldbringer!"

The group's ears perked up at the mention of their collective desire.

"How do you know about the gauntlet?" The Critic asked.

"I know many things, traveler! I know that only those who truly know the value and scope of its power can find it, that only those who are true of heart can unmask its secrets and wield its enchanted magic! I know these things because I have seen its marvels!"

"Doesn't the fact that it's enchanted already make it magical?" The Chick wondered.

"Silence—!"

"I kill you!" Mickey added.

"I said silence! It is obvious to me that you are not worthy of the gauntlet, or its supreme power! I will not reveal to you the next clue on the path to its location!"

"What be your name, putrid beast?" The Critic spoke, finally getting into the spirit of things.

"I am a creature of the ancient world! I have but one name, spoken throughout the ages only as a whisper, as a dark and terrible thing that lurks in the shadows of the world! I am simply known as… Cat!"

And like magic, the spell of fear the creature had held over them was broken.

"Cat?" The Critic snickered. "Really?"

"Yes!" Cat shouted.

"That's your actual name?"

"It's a terrible name!"

"I agree," Linkara chortled. "It's absolutely awful. How many seconds did it take you to come up with it? Two? Three?"

"I meant terrible in the sense that it's foreboding and ominous!" Cat defended.

"A third grader could've come up with something better!" Sage responded.

"Yeah! I mean, for a creature of the 'ancient world' you'd think they'd have a better name for a demonic hairball than 'Cat'!" The Critic ranted. "That's not even a proper name!"

"It is too!"

"It's just a noun!"

"It's straightforward and self-explanatory! I am Cat, eater of unworthy souls!"

"It's self-explanatory that you're an idiot," Lupa added in the sweetest tone.

"That doesn't even make sense as an insult!" Cat shot back. "I don't have to take this from you, you know! I can smite you at any time!"

"Oh what, you'll call down the will of Lamb Chop on us?" The Critic snarked.

"I demand your respect!"

"Whatever. Conan, cut his balls off," The Critic gestured to Benzaie.

"Right! I will crush the pussy!" Benzaie leapt into action, drawing his trusty foil to defeat the dreaded fiend Cat.

"I warn you!" Cat cried as Benzaie advanced on it. "Attack me and there will be dire consequences! I am the servant of another realm!"

"Whatever. COOOO-NAAAAAAN!" Benzaie screamed, bringing his broadsword down to bear on the Cat-creature. He was promptly sucker-punched in the gut by the hairy something before his blade could even make contact. Another two blows to his midsection and crotch led to him toppling from the log. The Cat rose from its crouching place in the underbrush and leapt into a fighting stance. It had miraculously sprouted another demon from its butt, one that looked oddly enough like a large human being in a black hoodie. It glared at the assembled adventurers with a look that said "come get some, bitches."

"C'mon, people, Conan needs our help!" The Critic cried, drawing his sword. The team complied, rushing directly at Cat in unison. They were ready for the most one-sided fight of their lives.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Good news, now that school is finished, you'll be seeing chapters completed at a faster rate. I'm hoping to get this thing completed before Year Four comes out.

-Xoanon


	10. Part 2, Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: A Fight with Cat**

The team leapt at Cat in unison, with swords drawn, fists raised, and hearts singing and ringing out the same battle cry. Surely, they thought as they were upon him, such a lumbering out-of-shape bastard would be no match for six adult men and two adult tomboys in their physical prime. This would be easy, they reasoned. Again, they were hilariously wrong.

"AAAAAAAAUGH!" everyone screamed. Suddenly, Cat leapt into the fray with gusto, maw biting and snapping like that of a rabid turtle. It went for The Critic first, landing a haymaker right on the tip of his chin. The Critic tumbled backwards onto the ground. It then leapt towards Linkara, barreling into his chest like a pinball and knocking him into a nearby tree. In an instant, two of the group's strongest warriors had been defeated.

The beast then rounded on the innocent visage of Eight Bit Mickey, who was cowering behind a nearby oak. Spitting madly, it rocketed towards his new prey, caroming off Phelous and Handsome Tom as he did so. Mickey attempted to run, but it was far too late. Cat latched onto his nose like a suckerfish, digging into the supple flesh of the nasal cavity and causing the poor lad to scream in pain. Lupa fainted.

"Help! It's eating my face!" Mickey shouted.

"_Rockbiter smash!" _Phelous snarled, stomping towards the fleshy man-mass attached to the rear of Cat. The rear part of Cat smirked, and darted out a supple-fingered hand to grab hold of the painted, yet still pliable nose of his adversary. Phelous shrieked in pain.

"_He's got my rock nose, my rock nose!" _The geo-man cried. "_Who does that anyway?"_

The Critic, only recently recovered from his ass-beating, quickly redoubled his efforts to stomp the half-man, half-hairball into the dust. Sword drawn, he sprinted at Cat screaming like a banshee and swung with all his might. At the last second the creature substituted for the open air of his unguarded flank the two prisoners he held in his hands. The Critic's sword lashed both of them, and they toppled to the ground in shambles.

"Oops, sorry." The Critic cringed. He knew the sting of battle well enough to empathize with their pain. A few seconds later, he empathized with it even more when the Cat-man punched him square in the face with a newly-freed fist, knocking him down again.

Sage leapt up behind the monster. The Cat rounded on him. He hissed. Cat hissed. He hissed again. So did Cat. This went on until the man-blob mashed Sage's foot with a large sneaker. Cursing the thousand swears known only to Narnia, he stumbled into the brush gripping his instep. The manic beast was too fast to stop by brute force alone. He was quick, canny; a thing that required speed and intellect to capture. Or, failing that, a really, really tall guy.

Handsome Tom stepped up to the beast. "Hi. I'm Willow."

Cat quickly sized up its foe. He was much too large to be bounced out of the way, and he couldn't be tricked as easily as the others. There was only one option left…

Seconds later, Handsome Tom was doubled over on the ground clutching his midsection. Cat had rammed its entire body into Tom's gullet. The Critic, Linkara and The Chick, who had wisely stayed out of the fight when she'd seen Cat try to force itself down Benzaie's throat, had regrouped far away from the unstoppable thing in order to formulate a new plan of attack.

"This is ridiculous! We're losing to a demented after-school special!" The Critic cried.

"It doesn't look good, my liege." Linkara added, watching Cat strangle Benzaie with one arm and whack Sage repeatedly on the head with the other. "At this rate, we'll lose the day for sure! We must think of something, and quickly! That kitty's dynamite!"

"Keep your puffy pants on, King Richard—"

"Arthur!"

"Whatever!" The Critic huffed.

"Perhaps I may be of some service," The Chick droned, throwing back her hood. "I have recovered from my migraine, and could distract the creature with my Elvish guiles."

"Really? You have guiles?" The Critic glanced at her robe.

"It's my Arwen montage. I've been practicing," she responded matter-of-factly. She threw back her robe to reveal a blazing white gown of splendid splendor. "Watch and learn."

Slowly, she made her way towards the maelstrom of misery and torment. Ignoring the struggling idiots splayed all around her, she stepped up to the thing attached to Cat. Almost instantly, its eyes widened and its limbs became loose. It dropped the half-suffocated Benzaie to the ground as he became entranced by the maiden who had enveloped it mind in her sultry Elvish trance. The Chick threw her hands forward gently, and a blinding white light enveloped its vision. Suddenly, the Cat-thing was lost in a world of foggy backgrounds, bad blue lighting, and fade transitions. There came a voice-over in the tongue of the elves, sweet as the songs of Valinor sung when the world was once whole and cool as the ice on the mount Caradhras. This is what it spoke to Cat as its mind lay dormant to the waking world:

_O foolish Cat-thing, why do you hurt these_

_Lowly mortals? I beseech thee, do please_

_Quit this dire conflict, and let their hides be!_

_You cannot win such a battle, you see_

_They are great imbiciles used to the pound_

_You cannot kill them, only knock them 'round_

_A sad silly thing to fight them, indeed_

_Such a waste of time for a strong-ish breed_

_Like yourself. Say, have you been working out?_

_Such bulging mass makes you no laze-about_

_Please be not angry with any mortal man_

_And let us all pass by, fast as we can_

_I now grant to you the calm words of peace_

_To ease your mind; I promise it's no fleece:_

_Chickety-China, the Chinese chicken_

_Have a drumstick and your brain stops tickin'_

_I know it's just rock and roll, but it's grand_

_To be a-playin' in a rockin' band_

_One sweet dream came true, if but yesterday_

_All you need is love, so the old ones say_

The Cat-creature was no longer a threat to them. The words The Chick had whispered in his ear had left it sedated, a declawed and defanged version of the snarling, physically-assaulting ball of teeth and fur that had existed once before. It was a pussycat now, so to speak. It swayed back and forth happily on his heels, content enough to enjoy the clouds and the sky and the lovely day that had the good fortune to arrive whilst it was still there. It was so strung out it almost entirely failed to notice the right jab The Chick gave to its cheek that would knock it out completely for the next three-and-a-half hours. Cat fell onto to the pavement with a sickening crunch, and was still.

"And that, gentlemen, is how we do it in Rivendell," The Chick said proudly, flexing her arm. The two so-called leaders of the team were in total shock, having watched the entire affair from behind a maple tree at a safe distance.

"Holy. Crap." The Critic spat, mouth wide open.

"Uh, yeah, excellent job, Lady Nostalgia Chick. That was, that was…" Linkara was having serious trouble maintaining his character. "Jesus, what the hell was that?"

"A distraction song," The Chick answered.

"A what?" The two men inquired together.

"Learned it at an Elvish poetry slam. One guy starts singing at the enemy and lulls him into a false sense of security, and then the other archer guys turn him into a pincushion. It's definitely not for the faint of heart," she replied nonchalantly.

"Erm, alright then…" The Critic confusedly answered back. "I guess we won."

A mighty cheer rose up from the half-dead warriors of Team One. Their first foe had been defeated! They were doing great so far; much better than those lightweights on Team Two. They'd probably met up with a ladybug and gone running home to their parents in disgrace, or maybe something even more humiliating to lose to than that!

"We're the victors!" Sage shouted in triumph, trying to pull himself up using a nearby stump. He failed to do so and collapsed back onto the ground.

"We defeated Cat… sorta…" Benzaie wheezed, still regaining the life that had nearly been choked out of him.

"_Hrry fr s! Hrry fr s!" _Phelous honked, holding his nose to stop blood from getting all over his costume.

"I've really got to hand it to you, Chick. That was a stroke of pure genius!" Mickey congratulated, also holding his nose and wincing in pain. "I've never seen someone over-romanticize a bunch of weird nonsense so well! It's like you were trying to hypnotize it into thinking you were deep and meaningful when in reality there was nothing there but a cheap hood and a two-bit wedding dress you bought online!"

"Thanks, Mick…" The Chick sort-of welcomed, shrugging her shoulders. "I appreciate it. Kinda."

"Oh! Speaking of which!" The Critic was suddenly reminded of the fallen member of their party, his memory having been jogged while staring at the fat living corpse of Cat lying on the ground in front of them. "I'll be right back."

He leapt past the group to spy Lupa prone on the asphalt behind them. She was still unconscious on the ground, eyes closed and face serene, arms lying straight at her sides. The others, now feeling somewhat less like ragdolls and regaining their health and composure a bit, gathered around the lifeless maiden in concern.

"Is she alright?" Benzaie asked.

"I dunno. She looks fine to me," The Critic nudged Lupa with his sword. "Lupa, hey Lupa, We defeated the monster. You can wake up now! Wakey wakey!" Lupa did not stir.

"Does she need medical attention?" Mickey asked, worried.

"Maybe she just needs mouth to mouth…" Sage replied, stealing in for a kiss or possibly something even more horrific. The Critic pulled him back.

"What's the matter with you?" he scolded. "I'm the knight in green tights, I get first dibs! Haven't you read the stories?"

"Both of you knock it off," Linkara warned. "She's coming around."

Lupa had awoken from her sleep, thankfully before things could escalate from there. She yawned profusely, sitting up and stretching, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"Oh!" She said suddenly, noticing her entourage. "Good morrow, all. Lovely to see you here."

"Way to puss out on us, Lupa." The Critic criticized.

"I'm dreadfully sorry. I must have swooned for a moment…" she replied woozily. "It was all I could do to remain in _pwecious chawacter_."

"Oh sure, your _pwecious_ character…" The Critic mocked. "If you ask me, you're character's staring to become a real pain in the ass. You're supposed to be helping us!"

Suddenly, The Critic's tie became far tighter. Lupa had grabbed hold of it and dragged him down forcibly to her eye level. There was no longer any trace of sweetness or innocence about her; it had instead been replaced by a steely determination that seemed almost murderous. With every forced syllable, she hissed her message at The Critic:

"Alright, listen here you snotty little green fairy fuck—"

"Heh. It's funny 'cause it isn't me," Mickey cut in.

"Shut it!" Lupa shouted. Mickey cowered from her gaze. She turned back to The Critic "Now look, rescue boy, I want to find that treasure just as much as everyone else here. I chose this character because I respect her resiliency, her optimism, and because the costume was on sale. If you don't like it, then tough."

"Okay, sure. You can keep being a princess. No one's denying you that," Linkara conceded, noticing that The Critic's tie was already cutting off his circulation and slowly turning his face a ruddy hue of pink.

"Good. So let's both agree that you can go back to being a characterless little leprechaun that serves as a surrogate for the player, and I can go back to being a feckless millstone that serves absolutely no use to the more heroic and powerful characters. Deal?"

The Critic nodded intensely. With that, Lupa let go of his tie and daintily walked off. The Critic, regaining his breath, looked after her disdainfully.

"Well excuuuuuuuse me, princess!" he choked out. The others looked at him in disgust, mostly because the first thing he'd managed to utter after his release had been a substandard punch line from a stand up routine that had been old when it was first written.

"Yeah, that did sound kinda douchey," he apologized. "Promise me you'll never let me do that again."

"We promise," the group promised in unison.

"Right. Onward, adventurers! Onward to… adventure!"

And so Team One restarted their journey, until they realized that they had no idea which way to go. It wasn't until The Chick began going through Cat's pockets that they found the next clue; they were to follow the road to its end while telling stories and singing songs to each other to pass the time. With much grumbling, the journey recommenced. Linkara was entirely overjoyed.

"Come now, my comrades! The day has only just begun! _And though you turrrn from meeeeeee, to glaaance behiiiiiind…" _

Phelous and Mickey groaned, The Chick plugged her ears with tissues, and The Critic resisted every urge he had to tie Linkara to a tree and leave him there for the wolves. Even for ultimate glory, this was going to be one long trip.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **If reading the battle gets a little confusing, I apologize. There's no truly accurate way to describe what's going on here.

-Xoanon


	11. Part 2, Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Innuendo, Among Other Things**

Meanwhile, in another, less musically inundated part of the world, Team Two was slowly making their merry way along on their own path to the gauntlet. The map had led them far beyond the comfort of the suburbs as well, and now they were trudging around deep within the bowels of Naperville's Centennial Park. Bravely they forged on, regardless of the fact that their unelected team leader (Spoony) had been directing them through clumps of reeds and across unkempt fields for the past hour and a half in a vain attempt to figure out just where the hell they were supposed to have been going originally.

"Ride, my Fellowship, and show the meaning of haste!" he shouted triumphantly, galloping rapidly down the packed dirt road. "The markings on this parchment suggest that our salvation lies ever yonder on the far slopes of Orodruin, Mount Doom itself!"

"He said to keep going that way," Todd translated grumpily, following behind at a more leisurely pace. The rest of the group grunted in understanding, all the while wondering why The Critic had given the map to Spoony instead of someone who was much more qualified, like a tree stump. Still, the trip hadn't been a total loss. At least some where enjoying the scenery, Paw-fion in particular:

_"This forest…"_ he breathed, breathing deeply, arms outstretched in an almost supplicating gesture. _"This forest is… so ancient, with so much history to behold, so much prophecy and wonder... And rage, so much rage!"_

_"FEEEEEED ME YOUR RAGE, FOREST!"_ Paw screamed into the canopy. He'd been on this rage kick ever since they'd started this death march. He was like a broken record; first he talked about rage, then feeding, then crushing his enemies and drinking wine from their skulls, then more rage. Angry Joe edged up to The Cinema Snob and expressed his concern.

"My gringo friend, I am deeply concerned about Paw," he said, still using his highly-inflected accent. "It's been at least an hour, and he's still doing this Woody Woodpecker of the Dead thing." The group turned to watch Paw "feed" on a cluster of dead sticks lying just off the edge of the path. They could still hear him hissing as they continued on.

Behind them at the tail end of the group were Film Brain and Luke, walking—coincidentally enough—side by side. Film Brain was still hurting over the argument he'd semi-lost earlier that day, and had so far been content enough only to sulk and whip his cloak around himself as if he were the Dark Lord of Some Whimsical-Sounding Magical Place. Now, with the others no longer around to thump him for complaining, he was going to settle the score with his erstwhile nemesis once and for all.

He tapped Luke brusquely on the shoulder with his "magic wand", which in reality was nothing more than a plastic Slim Jim his uncle had given him from a trip to the United States. Luke turned to his companion readily enough, the anger somehow missing from his rat's ass of a face. It was a trick. Film Brain wasn't fooled.

"Oh hey, what's up Film Brain?" he asked politely.

"It's Film Brain!" Film Brain snapped back at him.

"That's what I said," Luke replied.

"Oh, sorry," Film Brain apologized sheepishly. "It's just that everyone usually mispronounces it as something silly like Film Brawny or Film Bill or—hey! No changing the subject!"

"I didn't change the subject."

"Sure you didn't! Now listen here, Great White North…" Film Brain began sinisterly. "You may think you're the hot shit rising star around here, but let's get one thing out of the way right now: Mr. Critic is mine. He's my property, my mentor, my best friend whom I do almost everything in life with. And no one, especially not some uncouth colonial slug, will ever come between me and my pal. ¿Comprende?"

"…Alright, fair enough," Luke responded after a very long pause. "But to be frank, Film Brain, I'm not actually trying to take The Critic away from you. I'm just working hard like everyone else here that loves their job. Also, I'd like to apologize for calling you Sir Dorkalot earlier, and for fighting over the Harry Potter costumes. That wasn't very mature of me, and I'm sorry. I hope we can be friends now."

Film Brain processed this ploy adroitly in his head, ignoring the fact that Luke had just stuck out his arm to receive a handshake. Surely it seemed sincere enough, and there was no malice in anything he'd said or done beforehand, but still, the apology had come from that insufferable prick of a cockbite Luke Mochrie. That fact alone gave Film Brain enough traction to completely reject it and come up with a retaliatory gambit of his own:

"Oh sure, that's real nice…" Film Brain mocked. "'I'm just working hard like everyone else who loves his job.' News flash, Luke: we all hate our jobs, so there's no reason to keep this stupid charade going! I don't like you and you don't like me…"

"I like you."

"Bullshit! Tell me the truth!"

"Okay, then," Luke reared back the bile for his revealing of the truth. "I sort of liked you before this, but now it's just sort of a grudging respect mixed with contempt that you usually reserve for somebody you really find insufferable but have to work with anyway. Like a really annoying co-worker."

"…"

"Did that hurt?"

"A little." Film Brain squeaked. A quick cough and wipe of his eyes and he went back to his usual inharmonic tone. "It doesn't even matter, anyway. I don't even care. I don't notice you, Canuck, or anything you say or do, because everything you say and do is insignificant. You are a little speck, a tiny speck on the verge of being nothing, and I don't even acknowledge that fact because that's how insignificant you are. So there."

"Well, if I'm so insignificant to you, why are you even bringing this up?" Luke asked.

"…Alright, I changed my mind. You're a pea," Film Brain shot back pointedly.

"A pea?" Luke questioned.

"You are now a pea," Film Brain said. He held up his thumb and pointer finger in a pincer, as if they were holding a horrifying invisible insect of some kind. "This is you," he hissed, deadly serious. "You're begging for mercy: 'Oh please, Film Brain, don't eat me!' I'm not listening to you, because you're just a pea. So you scream to all the other little peas in the pea bowl: 'Oh save me, save me! He's going to eat me!' But I've already eaten all the other peas, Luke. Every. Last. One."

He pantomimed, in raucous detail, the eating of all the other little peas. It was less of a dining experience and more of a violent seizure, in which eating utensils would be thrown everywhere, dishes would fall on the floor and shatter, and the tablecloth would be upset. Luke watched the entire thing with feigned interest. Film Brain finished his paroxysm suddenly and went back to his little tale, giggling.

"That's… a lot of peas," Luke offered.

"Yes it is," Film Brain smirked.

"And… I'm a pea," Luke connected.

"Yeah," Film Brain smirked some more. His quarry was finally beginning to grasp the bigger picture, the one with him in it brandishing a long fork covered in pea guts.

"I'm just a pea. I'm full of peas, aren't I? Just full of 'em…"

"Right…" Film Brain breathed.

"I am totally full of pea-ness…"

"You are, sir. You are…" There was an almost Zen-like quality to Luke's musings now. He was fast approaching the mental singularity. It would soon be over... "Keep going."

"So, if I'm a pea…"

"Yeeeeeees…"

"…And I'm full of pea-ness…"

"Uh-huuuuuuuh…"

"…Then what are you going to do?" And at that moment Film Brain pounced.

"I WILL EAT YOUR PEA-NESS!" he shouted, loud enough for everyone else in their company to hear. None of them had been paying close attention to the two retards in the back, but at hearing words that lay so phonetically close to the word "penis", accompanied by the modifiers "eat" and "your", their interests were suddenly and irrevocably piqued. The entire group, at once, turned around in order to see what disgusting and shameful actions were occurring behind them in the group's rear.*

"Wait… wa-wa-wa-wa-wait! No! That wasn't what I meant!" Film Brain stumbled, backpedalling like hell after realizing what he'd just said sounded hilariously filthy when taken out of context. "I wasn't saying I was going to eat his… you know. There was—a, sort of—thing with peas, eating and—it was just banter! That was it, banter! There's nothing filthy going on really! Turn back around, please! Turn around!"

"Hey, that's okay, man!" Joe responded, struggling hard not to burst out laughing. "You guys can be whatever you want to. We don't mind!"

"We're a progressive group, lads. No need to be ashamed," JewWario added, twirling his ball mockingly.

"Keep an eye on those two, Joe," The Snob ordered from the front. "We can't let personal feelings endanger the unit."

"'Tis true!" Spoony agreed. "Many an important war hath been lost to the enemy in fatigue, 'specially the types of fatigue involving the forming of the beast with two backs—"

"We're not gay, guys," Luke objected suddenly. Now he was the one with the smirk. "Film Brain's just an idiot. Also, he's being very inappropriate."

"Stop bothering Luke, Film Brain. Go to the back," Joe waved.

"But I'm already at the ba—"

"Back further," Joe ordered. Luke, satisfied with his incredibly easy victory, stepped up to join the rest of the group while Film Brain, dejected and hurting, slowed his pace to a crawl to comply with Joe's command. He was embarrassed, but underneath the thin sheer of red there was a bitter blackness that swallowed everything else in his entire being. He had lost the battle, there was no doubt about that. It had been a crushing defeat, and there would probably be many more like it on his roster before the day was out. But there was no doubt in Film Brain's unhappy mind that he would definitely win the war, most likely either by forfeit or by some cheap underhanded tactic that Luke was above.

_I've got no standards, Luke. Bring it on._ He thought.

* * *

At the forefront of the group Spoony, The Snob and JewWario walked together, still chuckling every minute or two about the failed Pea-ness Offensive. Gradually, the talk faded, and other issues came forward to the docket of the snarkers. The Snob, for once almost enjoying himself, was able to shake it off and become rather restless when he noticed JewWario's ball was being tossed around in a closer-than-he-would've-liked proximity to his face. He made a careful note of it obviously being a child's toy.

"So what kind of weapon is a ball, anyway?" he asked, firing the opening shot.

"The ball is a beautiful weapon, my dear Professor, and an art form not to be taken lightly," JewWario replied earnestly. "So many different possibilities open up when you use the deadly sphere. You can throw it at your enemy's stomachs, roll it into their shins, or play keep away with it until they burst into tears and leave. You can even hypnotize them with its whimsical dance." He playfully rocked the ball back and forth in his fingers.

"More like hypnotizing them with its cheap novelty," The Snob scoffed.

"Very well then, smartass. What's your secret weapon?" JewWario retaliated.

"The same weapon all tough, heterosexual men use," The Snob drawled. "The whip." He proudly produced a brownish-black belt in one hand. JewWario was unimpressed.

"A whip? You're sure?"

"Absolutely. Ain't no one ever gonna mess with a man holding one of these in his hand." He gave the fake lash a few thwacks, landing it in his palm.

"…That's a belt," JewWario stated the obvious.

"I know. You can't carry whips on planes. Use your imagination."

"Well it's… rather terrifying," JewWario joked. "I could imagine it being use to hold up ones trousers with such ferocity that the Nazis would flee in terror from it."

"Don't get smart, Ziggy Stardust!" The Snob growled "I could bullwhip half-a-dozen school kids' asses with this, and it would still cinch up properly, so shut up!"

"Did you ever use it on your son. Y'know, your illegitimate greaser son—"

"Don't you dare say it!" The Snob threatened.

"…Shia Labeouf?"

"Your music was outdated in 1970! Lady Gaga is a better stage performer than you! You belong in a museum!" The Snob rapid fired his insults in an attempt to hide his rage.

"Oh well now you're just being rude…" JewWario grumbled.

Suddenly, Marzgurl stopped. She flung up a hand, smacking Todd in the face as she did so. With rapid tenacity, she sniffed at the air, tasting some odd pheromone or chemical that no human could sense. She turned to speak with the others and display her findings.

_"Kaze-che no nanika ga aru,"_ she announced furtively. There was something in the air…

"Oh yes, that sounded so much like Claire Danes," JewWario replied.

"What?" Todd asked.

"She smells something. Can't you read subtitles?" The Snob told him.

"What subtitles?"

_"Urusai!"_ Marzgurl quieted. She sniffed at the air again.

_"Wareware-wa mamora rete iru."_ We're being followed.

The group looked around. There wasn't any visible trail, or at least none that they could derive from their incredibly lazy sweep of the tree line and the surrounding wilderness. Other than Marzgurl's supposed wolf sense, which wasn't real in any semblance of the concept, there was no way to judge that her information was accurate or even helpful to them.

"Yeah, listen MG," Spoony stepped over to Marzgurl. "We no speaky the Miyazaki, so if perhaps you could instead alter your parlance into that of the Elves or perhaps one of the tongues of Men…"

"Wait, so Japanese isn't one of the tongues of men now?" The Snob questioned.

"Racist," Todd accused.

"I am not racist! None of us can understand her!" Spoony replied.

_"Azu kone!"_ Marzgurl pointed. The others looked to where she was pointing. On the path ahead of them, three figures stood. They were tall, angular things cloaked all in black, their faces obscured by heavy hoods and shadows. Each figure carried a magnificent broadsword in both his/her/its hands held erect with tips pointing upwards to the sky. Each sword was covered with gold and silver plating, and each handle had been inlaid the finest and rarest of jewels. They made no move toward the weary LARPers. All the same, their presence on the once deserted footpath was mildly surprising.

"AAAAGH!" Spoony leaped three feet backward into the group. The figures still hesitated. The rest of the team waited for them with baited breath, mentally and physically girding themselves for a potentially desperate fight for their own survival, or whatever.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **_*The preceeding pun in no way invalidates the writer's full commitment to high-quality, smut-free writing. We hope you will continue reading with us and enjoy the finer chapters in this and other stories written by the previously mentioned author. _

Redone after a mishap with the upload system.

-Xoanon


	12. Part 2, Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: A Mild Disagreement over Rules and Regulations**

The three figures continued to stand in the center of the path. The middle one, who was much larger than the other two by a considerable amount, lowered his sword in a threatening gesture of peace. No one else moved. The shade's invisible mouth opened and he began to speak:

"Greetings, travelers," he droned, in a fleshy grumble of some sort. "It is by our will that you now meet us. We are the guardians of Malachite's Hand."

"Guardians?" Film Brain asked innocently from the back, as if he had no idea what a guardian was or what it did.

"Yes, guardians," the middle figure confirmed. "There are several legions of us; unflinching, unmoving, all dedicated to protecting the Gauntlet, and keeping those who are… not worthy... from discovering its true power."

"Are… we not worthy?" The Snob asked.

"Yes," the guardian replied.

"What? No way! We're totally worthy!" Joe protested.

"I agree!" JewWario agreed. "Would someone unworthy be wearing something as magnificent as _this_?" He struck a pose in all his Bowie-ish glory.

"Or would the unworthy carry a belt?" The Snob brandished his weapon readily.

"No worthy mortal would be caught dead in that. And no, the worthy do not carry belts for weapons." The middle guardian shot down both JewWario and The Snob's arguments. "Only the pure of heart, the pure of mind, and the pure of conscience can ever dream of receiving the gauntlet. Only those who have true respect for the power it gives can ever hope to wield it. Mark my words, travelers: if you know what is best for you, you will turn from this path and never return to these woods. If you choose to deny our judgment—

"Well... there can only be one outcome." The guardians on the left and right side of the path accompanied this with a thin snicker.

"I'd love to see you try, Skeletor…" The Snob raised his whip to fighting height. The others began to draw their swords and spears in tandem with him. The cloaked figures remained adamant. It was up to Spoony to try and defuse the conflict before things got ugly.

"Peace, dear comrades. I will speak with them," he soothed, lowering The Snob's belt-whip carefully. He turned to the dark figures. "What do they call you, guardians of old?"

"We have been known by many names throughout history: the Nâzgúl, the Wraiths, Dementors. In this era, we have been named… The Cloaks."

"Why do they call you that?" Luke asked.

"Well it's obviously because they like wearing go-go boots—_why do you think?_" Todd replied curtly.

"It is of no importance. Turn around now," the lead Cloak ordered.

"_Yessss turn around now…" _the left Cloak hissed.

"_Turn around before it's too laaaaate…"_ the right Cloak chimed in.

"…I thought we agreed I was to do all the talking," the first Cloak grumbled. The other two Cloaks, apologizing sheepishly, begrudgingly retook their positions at his sides.

"Right, it seems that all attempts at peace have failed!" Spoony decided suddenly, shifting his staff to his ass-kicking hand. "There is only one proper and righteous way to handle this!" He snaked a hand into his bag of holding, digging around for some magical trinket that would defeat their newfound enemies.

"_What shall you use against them, disgustingly good wizard?" _Paw hissed.

"Something that no self-respecting Valar would enter this world without!" Spoony replied.

"_May I steal some?" _Paw reached for the bag, but Spoony snatched it away. He stepped up to The Cloaks cockily, without any fear at any possible sudden, bloody reprisal.

"Hmm…" Spoony hummed, inspecting the lead Cloak and his ilk. "Yes, indeed. Very interesting!" he dictated back to the group. "Oh yes, these creatures may seem mighty to the untrained eye, but in reality their power is nothing more than mere fool-of-a-Tookery compared to the majesty of a lightning bolt wielded by an Istari!"

"That means he's angry, I think," Todd whispered to JewWario.

"Avast, noble warriors!" Spoony shouted. "Face the wrath of the master mages!"

With semi-quickness, Spoony withdrew his hand from his mighty bag. Clutched tight in one fist was the harnessed energy of a thousand furious storms, his to wield through the bending of the very physical laws of nature. He struck rapidly, flinging the orb of sparks and static at the chest of the lead Cloak. It flew through the air to its target, on a course that was straight and true…

It bounced off the Cloak's chest and fell to the ground. The "lightning bolt" was nothing more than an ordinary packet of birdseed marked with a "2+" on one side. Another speeded to the same target after its brother, and as it struck it yielded the exact same result, nothing.

"Two magic! Two magic!" Spoony cloyed triumphantly. Cloak #1 stared down at the birdseed packets lying on the ground. He didn't really know how to respond to this display, other than to express mild annoyance at the things striking him in the chest. Spoony, hoping that his "magic force" had been strong enough to actually work against this type of enemy, redoubled his efforts at bravado.

"Well? How respond you, knave?" he questioned. Cloak #1 still did nothing.

"Well what? You just threw some paper packets at me," he replied.

"It's birdseed! You should know what to do!" Spoony prodded.

"I… really don't."

"You're supposed to submit to us! I've defeated you! You're supposed to fall down now and raise your hands up over your head, and then run back to the supervisor to report your death!"

"…"

"...Okay, I think I see what the problem is here," Spoony replied, breaking character by tugging his heavy beard off and handing his staff to the Cloak on the left. "Listen up here, fanboys, you've probably only played using the rules from—what, that _World of Darkness _game? You know with the rock/paper/scissors thing? Okay, _lame_. Completely amateurish, that's not how we roll here. That's like basic level D&D, guys; you should be past that by now. We're doing the birdseed thing today." He held up his bag for emphasis. "I hit you with a packet, say 'two magic', I hit you again, 'two magic', you lie down on the ground and twitch like you're a hamster that's been fed an AA battery. That's how it goes unless one of you guys—are any of you support class? Y'know like warlord, cleric? Anyone? No?"

The Cloaks stood there in uncomprehending silence.

"Forget it, forget it, it doesn't matter. Anyway, I hit you with two magic, that's enough to take you down, so down you go."

Spoony grabbed the lead Cloak by his bulky shoulders and tried to lower him down to the ground. The Cloak wouldn't budge.

"C'mon, man, let's not be children about this," Spoony groaned, heaving his entire weight against the Cloak. The Cloak merely stood there, a rock of indifference against Spoony's efforts.

"Go… down… damnit!" he grunted. The others, still watching as Spoony tried a takedown maneuver on the Cloak's legs, weren't sure what to make of this scene either. Nerds though they were, none of them were pathetic enough to have actually read up on the D&D tabletop rules before they'd started on their journey.

"Alright, fine!" Spoony gave up trying to budge the mountainous Cloak. "That's how it's going to be, then? That's how you guys want to play this? I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to report you guys to the GM. You are all in serious trouble, my friends. Serious, serious trouble. You're never going to set foot inside a LARP again after—"

"_**YOU UNDERESTIMATE US, MORTAL." **_Cloak #1 boomed. As he spoke, the skies above darkened, and the air around them became heavy with the odor of something ancient, something dark. Lightning flashed in the clouds, their patterns forking and branching, accompanied by loud peals of thunder. The echo of the Cloak's proclamation persisted for several measures, resonating into the very souls of all who stood there. Spoony, now completely, frighteningly aware of what he was dealing with, stepped cautiously back from his not-so-inept opponents.

"Y'know, it's the funniest thing…" he whimpered, clumsily resetting his beard in its proper place and grabbing back his staff. "Suddenly I've decided I'm terribly afraid of you. There's no need to get the GM involved here. Toodles!"

With that, Spoony turned around and ran screaming for his life in the opposite direction. "Their power is beyond any of you!" he called to the others. The Cloaks watched him go. A few seconds later he returned for his hat, which he'd deposited on the ground in front of his enemies during his rant, then turned around and continued running. Joe decided it was his turn to step up to the plate.

"Stand aside, my friends," he stated, his accent flaring up once more. "Let me jhandle this."

He stepped forward to face The Cloaks, drawing his rapier dramatically.

"Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my mother."

"Father," Cloak #1 corrected.

"Somebody! Prepare to die!"

"_Good, Montoya! GOOD!" _Paw intoned, stepping up to stand beside his friend. _"I shall help defend you from these creatures in your time of crisis, so as to be able to destroy you more readily when the time is right!" _He directed his most vitriolic hisses towards the figures standing before them. Montoya, still sort of weirded out by Paw's act, nevertheless agreed to his help. The others, emboldened by the mere sight of these two unlikely allies standing side by side in defense of one another, all stepped up to offer their assistance as well. The assembled group stood ready before The Cloaks, ready for anything they could possibly conjure up. The Cloaks were ready as well.

"_**THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING. RELENT NOW OR SUFFER DIRE CONSEQUENCES." **_Cloak #1 warned, voice returning to booming mode.

"So you have some cheap special effects, big deal!" The Snob shot back. "You can't take on all of us!"

"You don't scare me!" Todd threatened. "I've reviewed crap pop songs that are more threatening than you guys!"

"I've worked with Brian Eno!" JewWario cried. "And I just wanted you all to know that before I stomp each and every one of you into the dirt!"

"I've defeated a guy with a snake face like eight times!" Film Brain growled.

"So have I!" Luke cut in. "And I've done it better than Film Brain's Potter!"

"Hey!"

The group began to slowly fold in around The Cloaks, mocking and taunting them, goading them on, daring them to start something. The Cloaks did nothing, merely watching as their prey drew closer and closer to them in their ignorance. The lead Cloak handed his sword off to one of his lackeys. He drew both of his hands together in an odd formation, both palms facing each other in the middle of his chest. There came a sudden wind; thin snaps of energy crackled in between the two fleshy limbs. The Awesome-teers stepped back a bit, unsure of whether or not this was to be another light show. It wasn't.

The energy form grew ever larger in mere seconds, the thin streaks of static melding into a single concentrated sphere. He held the orb high above his head. It was a ball of pure lightning.

Wisely, the adventurers ran for it.

With a surprisingly small "whoomp" noise, the Cloak let the ball fly from his fingertips. It sliced through the scattering group with ease, passing over their heads and rapidly singeing the tips of their hair and hats. It slammed into the dirt a good ten feet behind them. The dust it kicked up rocketed high into the air above the forest, creating a small mushroom cloud. The sound echoed off into the woods and faded in a series of warbling reverbs. The Cloak's invisible mouth smirked. Not bad for a mere warning shot.

The adventurers recovered quickly. Even more quickly than that, they looked behind them at the impact point of the mystical globe. What had once been part of a simple dirt path was now a moderately large steaming crater.

"Ho-ly shit!" Paw and Joe both said together.

Nervously, and regretting the numerous insults they'd spouted earlier concerning The Cloaks' respective mothers and ancestries, the adventurers looked back at the opposing leader. He folded his arms across his chest succinctly, as if to say "yes, I am that awesome." For a moment, there were no sounds to be heard other than the whistling of the wind and the chirping of birds in the more peaceful, less explosion-wracked parts of the forest that lay elsewhere in safer parts of the world.

Todd was the one who broke the silence first:

"_WET YOURSELVES AND RUN!"_

The team complied with the latter part of his command. They ran. They ran very hard and very fast in the same general direction, in a loosely knit ball of bodies so as to provide a much larger target for the enemy to fire at. As they ran, they screamed as loudly as they possibly could at the tops of their lungs in order to guide their enemies quickly and successfully to their position. So far, their retreat was going exactly as they'd planned.

The lead Cloak watched as their quarry fled down the path in the opposite direction. He retook his sword from his compatriot, returning it to its upright, or "killing" position. Slowly, he began to step forward at a brisk but measured pace. The others followed him with matching strides. They had been successful in scaring the fools off, but that was only part of their job, the simple part. They had to be dealt with, completely. No other unworthy interlopers in the world of mortal men could know of the gauntlet. There was no question about it. They had to be exterminated.

This was going to be fun.

* * *

The dark stranger watched as The Cloaks took off down the path after their prey. So far, everything was going as planned. Good. He liked it when everything went as planned.

He watched The Cloaks leave. The game was progressing nicely; already the defenses had been activated. It was of no consequence to him. He could easily overpower these meager maladies if he so desired. Besides, they were not his desired targets. He had much bigger plans than a silly game.

All he had to do was wait.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Sorry about the lateness of this chapter. I had orientation for school. Look for Part 3 coming your way soon.

-Xoanon


	13. Part 3, Chapter 12

**Part 3: The Quest Quests Ever On**

**Chapter 12: Proper Etiquette**

The Critic swept through the branches, barely dodging an errant swing from a nearby oak. The path they'd chosen had taken them through a relatively clear part of the underbrush, past the larger conglomerations of trees that lay within in the deeper areas of the preserve. Now the asphalt road lay ahead of them once more. Their route had taken them that much closer to their legendary prize. The weary travelling team felt as if they'd made good progress that morning, even despite the cold, the bruising and the silliness they'd endured. But even the most adept warriors couldn't keep moving for long periods of time.

"I'd say this looks like a good place to rest, wouldn't you?" The Critic began, gesturing to the road in front of them. A small yellow lawn chair straddled the dividing line of the pathway, a lone sentinel placed there by some unknown force long ago. "Tired, my friends?"

The others, winded and stitched up, groaned their agreement.

"As am I. We shall all rest here! But it appears we have a problem…"

"One chair and several of us," Sage mused. "A large problem indeed."

"Well, then," Linkara breathed, mustering up the last of his kingly courtesy. "I'm sure there's a rational, reasonable adult way to deal with this pro—"

"Dibs!" The Critic cried.

"Di—curses!" Linkara snapped his fingers as The Critic sped happily towards the small plastic wicker chair. He plopped his seat down into the seat with great relish, withdrew his Master Sword and placed it by his side, leaned back and stretched. A mighty sigh escaped his lips. He was content. He held the map up and began to study its intricacies further. So far they were making good time; only a few more riddles left to solve until they reached their final goal. It was all coming together very nicely. Very nicely...

The others, unhappily deprived of their Shangri-chair, spread out over a large portion of the forest road. They rubbed their backsides in discontent, trying to massage out the cramps and aches they'd received during the Cat fight. Only Phelous seemed content enough to actually enjoy their reprieve.

_"That's right, my friends! We're going to rest now!" _he boomed happily, swaying his little plastic figurines back and forth. _"Enjoy!" _

"I think he's finally lost it," Sage reported to Linkara.

"Trust me, he lost it a _long_ time ago," Linkara replied. Taking leave from the group, he stepped over to the prone Critic lying in the chair. For a moment he stood there working up the nerve to ask his leader something important. This was a ticklish question, and it had to be asked with the proper amount of care and consideration given to The Critic's temperamental moods. The very morale of the entire group depended on it.

"Excuse me, my dear Critic," he said finally. "Might I bring up something troubling to you as your noble and wise king?"

The Critic, not budging from his position, responded:

"If I said no, would it matter?"

"Oh no, dear sir, not at all," Linkara conceded. "It's just that… don't you think it's a tad odd that there's just… a chair sitting out here in the middle of the forest?"

The Critic, interest piqued, turned to face his noble squire. "What're you talking about, Hamlet?"

"Can you believe something as easily movable as a chair was just sitting here in the middle of the forest?" Linkara questioned. "It's simply not logical, improbable even! It's almost as if someone was… waiting here for a while. Waiting for us…"

The Critic agreed, now entirely focused. "That's a good point."

"And perhaps—and this is only conjecture, my dear Critic—" Linkara continued. "Perhaps this chair is a sign that someone was… watching us."

"_Is _watching us," he added.

The Critic turned from Linkara to scan the tree line. It _was_ possible, he thought, that someone could easily be following them. This was a big preserve; plenty of people came here every day. There could be little question that anyone else in the entire world would jump at the chance to gain something like Malachite's Hand for themselves. Could it be possible that they merely wanted to take a shortcut to obtaining the powerful prize, to take the hard work out of finding the artifact?

Could it be that they were merely waiting for the proper time?

"That's actually a really good point," The Critic corroborated, mind now racing with thoughts of slaughter at sword point. "What should we do?"

"The best defense is a good offense, my liege," Linkara offered. "In order to stop any more potential threats, we need to be ready for them before they strike. We'd best be on our guard…"

"Yeah, we should," The Critic agreed.

"Make sure we're truly well-prepared…"

"Yeah," The Critic repeated.

"Don't trust anyone…"

"Yeah!"

"And most importantly of all, we need to act quickly, through a motivational series of actions of some sort. We need…"

"Yeah?"

"A musical number!" Linkara beamed, holding up his green songbook happily. The Critic flopped back into his chair.

"Are you kidding me? This again?" he asked tiredly.

_"We need a musical to start this song now—"_

"Get outta here!" The Critic waved disgustedly. "We're not singing!"

"Oh come on, It'll be fun!" Linkara pleaded, dragging out a green notebook from underneath his cloak. "I'm already working on the lyrics for the big love theme! By the way, do you know a good word that rhymes with 'castrati'?"

"Go!" The Critic jabbed his thumb towards the resting group to his right. Dejected, Linkara snapped his songbook shut and trudged back over to join them. Contented, The Critic leaned back once more and sighed. Now to get some well-needed rest…

His rest was short-lived, as Lupa and The Nostalgia Chick were hurriedly pushed over to The Critic by Mickey and Sage just as soon as Linkara rejoined the group. The Chick, sighing, leaned over to The Critic and tapped him gently on one of his eyelids.

"Uh, Critic? Honey?" she asked timidly. "There's a little something that we need to talk about."

The Critic leaned forward a bit more. Thankfully, his tie was covering the issue at hand. Barely.

"Really? What's that?" he asked.

"Well, there's a certain… article of clothing that you have on that you may or may not be used to wearing…" Lupa started gently.

"And there's a certain… finesse to wearing it that you haven't got a hold of yet," The Chick finished.

"What do you mean?" The Critic wondered, shifting slightly in his seat. His tie slipped a little, revealing a brief glimpse of the unsightly piece of property in question.

"There's just a certain etiquette you might want to keep in mind, that's all," The Chick spat, gagging slightly and turning away. "Y'know, while you're wearing it?"

"What're you talking about?" The Critic leaned back in his seat, sweeping his tie out of the way to reveal a blazingly white pair of some distended undergarment which cradled a most foul bulge for all to witness. Faced with a devastating full blast from The Critic's marshmallow bag, Lupa and The Chick turned away and cringed in embarrassment and fear.

_"Sweet Jesus…" _Lupa whispered, walking back to the group in disgust. The Chick still soldiered on as best she could with her attempt at civilizing The Critic and solving his pendulous problem.

"It's just… there are certain things that… on the male and female body… that are… completely… horrifying… and should be kept covered at all times."

"Y'know… covered up?" she made a covering motion with both hands.

"Oh I get it…" The Critic replied knowingly, nodding. "That's why I've got the hat. No need to worry, Nostalgia Chick, I'm good."

"It's not your head," The Chick whistled through clenched teeth. "There are certain _other _things that need to remain closed. Hairy things. With hair." She made a closing motion this time, clapping her hands together ferociously.

"I know, I know," The Critic responded. "And I for one respect Chick-Fil-A for remaining closed and not serving people on Sundays. Now if only we could get them to stop serving fundamentalist Christians…"

"There's a certain—I can see your balls," The Chick said tiredly.

"What?"

"I can see your freaking balls. Me, Lupa, everybody, God, they can all see your balls, dude."

The Critic looked down, and saw the vile nuisance at hand poking out from underneath his clothes. Suddenly regaining the lost modesty he'd once possessed as person wearing jeans, he dragged his green skirt down over his defining gender characteristics.

"Oh holy crap!" he cried. "Why the hell didn't anybody say something before?"

"We were all too busy going blind!" Mickey laughed from the group.

"You could all see my package this whole time! Fuck!" The Critic's face was now as red as it usually was when he was reviewing something awful, though for a completely different reason. "How do you ladies walk around in these things?"

"Do you want us to show you?" The Chick offered.

"Oh sure, that'll happen," The Critic scoffed.

"You could continue to walk around with your sack out…"

"Okay, deal!"

Meanwhile, Rockbiter listened intently to what his little friends had to say. They were such good little friends, always happy and cheerful, always full of new things to say and new ideas. It was a shame that no one else ever listened to them, that no one else cared about what they had to say, but Rockbiter cared. Rockbiter would always listen to his little friends. He put his ear up to the little figurines and listened intently. Then, he pulled back and repeated to the world what they had to say to him.

_"What's that, my little friends? You want me to kill Bennett?" _he croaked. _"We can't do that! He hasn't done anything to us! There's no reason to kill him!"_

_ "…Or is there?" _Rockbiter mused, gazing up at the sky as if suddenly a sign would appear in the heavens for him to attack and murder his dear friend Bennett the Sage. As he sat deep in thought, Sage watched him from the sidelines intently. Phelous was really getting into character, he thought. Maybe he would make a better protégé than Linkara… He turned to watch The Critic practicing being a pansy with Lupa.

"Do I really have to do it like this?" The Critic complained as he awkwardly practiced his curtsy alongside a rejuvenated and far perkier Lupa. "This is so embarrassing!"

"Posture, Critic! Posture!" Lupa commanded, forcibly straightening up The Critic's back. "You'll never be a proper lady if you don't stand up straight."

"I don't want to be a lady! I just want to learn how to walk without exposing myself!"

"You'll be a lady and enjoy it, you pantywaist sissy!" Lupa retaliated, grabbing The Critic once more by his tie. The Critic relented, and reluctantly resumed his bowing. The Nostalgia Chick, having left the girly frou-frou curtsying stuff to Lupa, was busy inspecting her costume. An Elven princess had to look her finest, even in the company of mortal men who didn't know beauty from an ugly hole in the ground. She didn't notice the strange figure that was creeping through the woods and up to her side at that very moment. It was only when that creature thrust out a brown arm at her that she gasp-screamed in surprise and turned to face her assailant.

It was Ma-Ti. He was holding a thin plastic lens in his outstretched hand. By some miracle, he had managed to find the semi-nonexistent contact in the field where they'd left him so many hours ago.

"I found it!" he said cheerily. "It took me a while, but I finally found it! It was floating in a mud puddle, so I washed it off for you with soap and warm water!"

Regaining her composure (Ma-Ti's sudden appearance had almost scared her out of her cloak), she turned to alert The Critic to their new interloper.

"Hey! Little Women!" she called out to the still-practicing Critic and Lupa. "We've got a guest."

The Critic, pirouetting on his tiptoes, turned and noticed that his little pest of a friend had returned. Dropping down to his feet ungracefully, he stalked over to them, eyes focused with all the concentrated rage he could possibly muster.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **And so begins Part 3. We're slowly chugging along.

-Xoanon


	14. Part 3, Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: A Fetish Fetch Quest**

"Ma-Ti!" The Critic strained, barely holding back a flood of expletives as he stomped toward his Indian friend and clasped him on the shoulders harder than he ever had before. "What what what what what what are you doing here?"

"I found Nostalgia Chick's contact lens!" Ma-Ti repeated joyously. "Can I join the mission now?" His gaze was almost too much to stomach at the moment, and that, coupled with the half-pangs of guilt at lying to him so much, resulted in almost ten seconds of stuttering before The Critic could come up with an answer.

"We'd… like to have you on the team, Ma-Ti. Really, we would," he spat out, "but I have another special mission that only you can do. Are you up to the task, pal?"

"Really? What is it?" Ma-Ti asked.

Hoping his ruse still sounded plausible, The Critic replied: "Ah…" and then promptly froze up.

There was no quest for Ma-Ti to undertake. The Critic had nothing for him to do; no dry cleaning to pick up, no errands to run downtown, no enemies on his hit list pathetic enough for an ex-Planeteer to take on alone. But he couldn't let Ma-Ti join the group; he would tell them the plan and spoil everything! His eyes darted to the left and right for a quick solution. He suddenly saw Mickey standing by Tom sharpening his blade. Perfect.

"It's about Mickey, Ma-Ti." The Critic lied. "He has erectile dysfunction."

And exactly at the words "Mickey" and "erectile dysfunction", Mickey's ears perked up. "What?"

"Wow, poor guy." Ma-Ti sympathized. "Wait, how do you know—?"

"He told me about it earlier. The bottom line is, this is a problem that he has to live with every day of his life. Can you imagine that pain, Ma-Ti? Spending day after day of whacking off all by your lonesome with no possibility of success? With no hope?" The Critic turned Ma-Ti toward Mickey, who by now looked like a tomato dressed up as The Incredible Hulk.

"Look at the anger in that face, Ma-Ti; the desolation, the sheer indescribable angst," he narrated as Mickey's ruddiness deepened. "Look at how tormented he is. That is years upon years of pain slowly building up inside, crushing his soul, murdering his self-esteem, shriveling his… well, you get the idea. It's bad, Ma-Ti. Really bad." The Critic twisted Ma-Ti back to him. "And he can't live with it anymore. It has to be solved, and fast!"

"Couldn't I just get some Viagra for him?" Ma-Ti questioned. "There's a drugstore right around the corner…"

"No! No no no, Ma-Ti, this is a special case," The Critic cut him off. "I mean, with regular erectile dysfunction, you could do that, but Mickey's case is 100% psychosomatic. Drugs won't work on it. He's tried before."

"Mickey likes goats, you see…" The Critic continued. Behind him, Mickey snapped the stick he'd been grasping in half.

"Goats?" Ma-Ti mimicked.

"Yes, sad but true," The Critic said, shaking his noggin from side to side. "And, for some odd reason or another, the only thing he can ever get it up to is… goats. And goat porn."

"Goat porn? They make that?"

"It's on the Internet, Ma-Ti. They make everything there now," The Critic returned. "Especially goat porn, the type of porn for people as sick, demented, and sexually twisted as Eight Bit Mickey."

Mickey was shaking his head solemnly back and forth now, eyes still locked on The Critic's center mass as if he were a hungry predator.

"So go, Ma-Ti! Go! Go and get goat porn for Mickey!" The Critic encouraged. "Go to the library if you can! Find information, find everything you can about goat porn! Find the porn, Ma-Ti, and you'll find the way."

"But Critic… how—"

"Cease with your questions, Ma-Ti!" The Critic placed his hands back on Ma-Ti's shoulders. "This quest is not to be taken lightly. Eight Bit Mickey truly needs your help on this, and so do I. We're all counting on you. Find the porn, Ma-Ti, and you will truly achieve. The power is yours."

"…Right?"

"Right," The Critic confirmed.

"Okay, I'll find Mickey some goat porn, I guess," Ma-Ti agreed, somewhat crestfallenly. "Whatever."

"Excellent! Alright, people!" The Critic clapped his hands together. "Let's get movin'! We have a gauntlet to find!"

"Don't you guys want to wait here until I bring Mickey's porn back?" Ma-Ti asked.

"Ah, that's okay. You can send it by courier mail," The Critic replied. He turned away and began walking briskly down the forest road. Behind him the team, already chaffing at the prospect of another death march, picked up their scattered belongings and trudged after him. Ma-Ti bade them a fond farewell, stopping Mickey briefly to offer words of encouragement.

"Fear not, my dear friend Mickey! I will help you overcome your problems, both with erectile dysfunction and bestiality." He said these words loud enough for Linkara to hear as he walked past them. Linkara, deep in his songwriter's thoughts, barely heard them, though at the word "bestiality" he began to walk a little bit faster after the rapidly retreating fellowship. Mickey, knowing he would like nothing more at the moment than to snap The Critic's spine, responded cheerfully:

"Well thank you, Ma-Ti," he grimaced, giving his professional porn finder a playful punch in the chest. "What better friend could a goat fucker ask for?"

With that, he swept past Ma-Ti and took up a position on the far right side of the road, walking down in the drainage ditch a good distance from the rest of the group. Ma-Ti, satisfied and imbued with a new purpose, took off at a leisurely pace in the opposite course. He had a new mission. The Critic was right. Mickey was counting on him, and he couldn't let Mickey down. He would start at the Naperville library. They would be sure to point him in the right direction.

* * *

Meanwhile, The Critic announced to the rest of the group the next clue.

"Holy crap, is this thing difficult to follow!" he carped, turning the map onto its side. "Who would've thought a map from a chain letter would be so difficult?"

Instantaneously the entire group, minus The Critic, stopped dead in their tracks. It took half a moment for all the words to sink in. They were following a map from a chain letter? An honest-to-God chain letter? The type of letter that was immediately sentenced to the furnace or shredder or compost heap the moment it arrived? The kind that only half-baked nitwits actually believed in? That type of letter?

_"A CHAIN LETTER?"_ they all responded in outraged unison.

"Shouldn't have said that…" The Critic cringed, continuing to walk on.

"You got the map from a chain letter?" Lupa yelled. "We've been following the postal equivalent of toilet paper this whole time?"

"Yeeeeah... So what's the problem?" The Critic asked gingerly.

"You've gotten us lost in the woods with a crappy map! That's the problem!" The Chick accused.

"It's a perfectly valid map!"

"For what, the 1980s?" Linkara questioned angrily. "Do you even know when that thing was first made? It could be years out of date for all we know!"

"…Recently?" The Critic guessed, turning the parchment over. He really wished he'd written down the date he'd seen on the other map… "Oh c'mon, guys! You know this thing's really real! We ran into that Cat thing a while back, didn't we? That's got to count for something, doesn't it? Think about it!"

The group worked over The Critic's logic thoroughly. The map _had_ led them into the fight with that Cat creature, and then sent them trudging through a miserable stretch of forest in the bitter cold, leading them to a desolate stretch of road in the middle of nowhere, and they were now set to do it all over again with the next clue, which might or might not even exist anymore given the map's unknown age. The Critic's logic was solid, or at least semi-stable. Tom opened his mouth to deliver the first rebuttal:

"You fucker," he said succinctly.

"What he said," Sage agreed.

"Okay, fine!" The Critic surrendered. "Look, the map probably isn't from the most reliable of sources, but I swear on my honor it's legit! You have absolutely nothing to worry about with me leading the rest of the way to the gauntlet. Oh, by the way, we each have to mail the map to fifteen other people by the end of the month or else we get back luck. Is that cool?"

The group stood there in stony silence for a moment.

"Jump him and take his stuff," The Chick rumbled.

"Dibs on the Master Sword!" Linkara called out.

The Critic screamed and flung his arms up to protect himself as the group lunged forward, dashing towards him with the intent to deliver another beat down reminiscent of the one he'd received back in Nevada. Suddenly, as if from out of the surrounding trees themselves, there came a strange sounding, gravel-toned voice. It managed to impede the quarreling crusaders, stopping them just short of where The Critic cowered and just before Mickey came close enough to claw out The Critic's eyes.

"_Go no further,_" the voice commanded.

The Critic lowered his arms, looking out into the forest that lay all around the tiny path. The others gazed up into the canopy above. No one was watching them from the branches, Ma-Ti was long gone from the forest path, and Cat was still probably unconscious or in a hospital bed somewhere. Was this a new challenger? Someone more horrifying the game had cooked up for them?

"_Go no further,_" the voice repeated.

"What's going on?" Mickey asked.

"I don't know. There's no riddle on the map that says anything about a voice," The Critic rechecked his parchment. He put a hand on his Master Sword, ready for another encounter. Linkara, Benzaie and Mickey all did the same with their weapons. The rest of the defenseless players huddled together in a tight ball back to back with one another. Whatever this thing was, it wasn't going to get the drop on them this time.

"Who are you… spirit?" The Critic guessed. The voice answered him speedily:

"_I am the Watcher in the Woods. I see all. I have watched your progress for many hours now, and I am very displeased._"

"So… what do you want, then?" The Critic asked, unsheathing his sword carefully.

"_I will offer you a test. If you pass, then you may proceed unharmed._"

"Sounds fair," Linkara concurred. "What's the test?"

"_Anyone who wishes to pass through my woods must answer me three questions correctly. Then, and only then, will I allow them admittance. If the questions are answered incorrectly… well, you do not wish to know the alternative…_"

"Alrighty, then." The Critic braved, drawing himself up slightly in stature. "Ask me your questions, Watcher. I am not afraid."

The Watcher hesitated briefly. Either he was trying to think up some really good brainteasers, or he'd managed to get bored with his human playthings incredibly quickly. The assembled group waited patiently for his first riddle, The Critic especially. He kept a tight grip on the hilt of his Master Sword. He was ready for action. Suddenly, and without warning, the rough whisper returned to them.

"_Question one:_" The Watcher began. "_Do you have any money?_"

The Critic faltered. Usually mystical creatures asked more complex riddles than that. That question wasn't even a riddle, it was more like a request you would hear from someone who had accidentally left his wallet on the bus.

"No," The Critic answered.

"_Do any of your friends have money?_"

"I don't think so," The Critic turned to the group. They answered in the negative as well. "Nope."

"_Is there any place close by where you can get money?_"

"Not really, no," The Critic answered. There was a rustling in front of them. The group all turned at once to face their new attacker. Out from behind a tree there stepped a dingy-looking vagrant. He was dressed in a dirty white undershirt, jeans, and a thin tan windbreaker. His face was covered in soot, framed by the presence of greasy black hair that spilled out from underneath a ratty old snow cap colored orange and blue. He held a Styrofoam cup in his hands, the one with which he made the voice heard once before in the trees. The group breathed a welcome sigh of relief. The terrifying Watcher in the Woods was none other than Chester Alfred Bum, a semi-harmless vagabond who lived in the park during good weather.

"Okay, you guys can go," he said dejectedly.

The group made their way past the Bum, shaking their heads in both with relief and annoyance at the same time. As they walked past, The Critic chastised him:

"Does that trick ever work?" he asked.

"It does for people who have MONEY!" Chester replied.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **The rest of the series may take a little longer than expected, but I'm planning to have most of this done by the end of July.

Also, I saw the trailer for _To Boldly Flee_ on TGWTG, and sweet Jesus do I have my work cut out for me next year. Go see it and go nuts.

-Xoanon


	15. Part 3, Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: The Battle of the Battleground**

The forest was absolutely peaceful and standing tepid in the balmy light of midday. The trees cast growing shadows on the ground, making strange, fantastical patterns and shapes over the dirt. Near the edge of a small clearing there flowed a thin brook, which babbled happily beneath the small iron bridge that crossed it. Everything was perfect and as it was supposed to be. There was not a single upsetting sight to be seen or disquieting sound to be heard.

Until now.

Todd in the Shadows careened over the footbridge, screaming his head off and tramping over fallen leaves. As he ran, he scattered a group of ducks that had been floating in the water below. Behind him, the rest of Team Two followed at close range, each member running for their lives from the same advancing threat. At the end of the pack there traipsed Spoony, cramped and lacking for breath. He stopped briefly on the bridge to issue a threat to his pursuers:

"YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" he shouted, raising his staff into the air triumphantly. A ball of lightning flew at him and nabbed the hat from the top of his head. It burst into flames and fell to the bridge in tatters. Spoony screamed, turning around and running even faster than before. The lightning bolt had been aimed at Spoony by the leader of the Cloaks; even as he ran the shade was charging up another. They advanced slowly up the path to the bridge. The mortals could not escape them. There was no hope.

The lead Cloak threw another ball of lightning at JewWario. JewWario, sensing his impending doom, turned and thrust his pelvis defiantly at the incoming missile. Incredibly, the sphere bounced off of his tightly-packed stocking and ricocheted back at the Cloaks. The Cloaks only barely missed the projectile, ducking and letting the errant energy orb slam into the dirt behind them. With barely a char to be seen on his tights, JewWario turned around and ran onward. The lead Cloak stumbled for a moment.

"Don't use the magic too much, m'lord. You know what it does to you," Cloak Two said. "Besides, you're a lousy shot anyway."

"True, true," Cloak One replied. "All I truly need for them is this." He redrew his sword, which had been stored away in the nether realm inside his robe, and charged.

The Cloaks stormed across the bridge, bearing down on the two Potters Luke and Film Brain, who had been left behind by the rest of the pack. As if by instinct, Film Brain jabbed Luke in the back of the knee in a wonderful act of self-preservation. Luke stumbled briefly, somersaulting over the dirt, getting back up again and running his ass off in an attempt to regain his lost time. The team left the forest preserve far behind in their exodus. They clamored over the thin grasslands inside a canyon of houses, one which led deeper into the city proper. The Cloaks charged in behind them. More witnesses, their leader thought. That could be a problem...

Team Two ran across the baseball field of a school, the classrooms far off in the distance. The Cloaks sprinted after them. At last, near the far end of the lot, they came across a place to make their final stand. It was the ruins of a small castle, open to the air. The old structure was slowly crumbling with the advance of time; its walls were sagging and rusted, and its grounds sunken in sand. It was a small playground.

"_Ah, at last!"_ Paw cried, sliding to a stop._ "A worthy place to call our battlefield!" _

"Indeed it is!" Spoony agreed. "Warriors, to your battlements!

Quickly, and with no time to lose, they assumed what was possibly their last fighting positions amongst the iron bars and plastic. Spoony, Marzgurl and JewWario manned the area beneath the bridge, Joe and Film Brain manned the central tower, Cinema Snob took the bridge, and Todd and Luke both guarded the tube slides. Paw stood at the farthest edge of the slides under the tower, stick in hand, egging their enemies onward at them and hissing endlessly. The Cloaks barreled down on them with blazing speed, swords drawn.

_"Kure yo!"_ Marzgurl taunted, holding her spear out in front of her fearlessly. The Cloaks obliged, charging into their enemy's ranks with abandon. Swords clashed with plastic swords, spears with swords, and swords with sticks. It was a melee unlike anything the team had ever witnessed. The battle for their very lives had begun.

"_Take this, you miserable bag of bones!" _Paw cried, blocking his opponents blows savagely with his walking stick. _"Not so talented now, are you, you rotten—"_

At that moment, the Cloak kicked Paw in the shin, forcing Paw to retreat whilst holding his leg in agony. Meanwhile, Todd was having similar problems in defending their miniscule keep from the taller Cloak in the trio.

"C'mon, man! Let's be reasonable about this!" he stammered, dodging blows from the Cloak's sword as he spoke. "I barely even know these guys; I just do music reviews on their website! I don't even like these people!"

He barely leapt out of the way of a killing strike that put a furrow in the plastic molding of the slide, barely noticing as Cloak One leapt up the stairs toward Luke, who had retreated to the other side of the bridge. Luke, having nowhere else to go, took the tubular slide as an escape route. Cloak One followed close behind. He leaped into the hole, slid quickly down the tube and… got stuck halfway between the top of the slide and the ground.

"Blast it!" he cried. "This slide was not built for the husky demonic warrior!"

Spoony blocked two blows from the Cloaks beneath him, while Todd attempted to readjust his mask in order to figure out exactly who he was fighting with the random swings of his sword. The Snob, in a brilliant move, used the zip line to take out a Cloak waiting for him. This backfired as his momentum carried him right back into the equipment again with a painful lurch. Joe, by some odd method, had managed to climb to the top of the swing set, and was hammering away at a hapless Cloak situated on the ground beneath him.

"Go back to the darkness!" Spoony cried, rebuffing the Cloak that had come up from behind him on the stairs to the keep. He ducked around the central banister to avoid being hit.

"_Give in to the darkness!" _Paw retorted, coming around the banister to attack the same Cloak.

"Rage will not avail you!" Spoony exhorted.

"_Rage! MOOOOORE RAAAAGE!" _Paw screamed.

?Meanwhile, The Snob withdrew to the bridge. He smacked the sword from Cloak One's hands, then jumped into the center of the rickety plastic crossing. Suddenly, an armed Cloak appeared before him, the now sword-less Cloak closing in behind. He was trapped between the two of them. There was no way out.

"Shit," The Snob exclaimed. The Cloaks began to edge in on him, either to steal his soul or do something much worse involving things only damaged minds could dream about. The Snob had only one option left, and he quickly chose it. He raised his stolen sword high into the air; his glasses shimmering in the rays of the sun. To his enemies he yelled out the only apt quote for the situation:

"Prepare to meet Kali… in _Hell!_"

The Snob swung. The sword arced through the air…

_*tunk!*_

It came down with barely a mote of force on the hard steel rebar of the bridge's handrails, the vibrations almost causing The Snob to drop his blade. The lead Cloak put his hands on his hips disapprovingly, as if to say "way to nearly damage a priceless ancient sword, genius." The Snob sheepishly handed the blade back to its rightful owner, then dropped low to the ground and ducked out through the gap between the planks and the steel in the bridge. Elsewhere, the battle raged on: Spoony smacked a Cloak in the face with his elbow, JewWario daintily dodged another Cloak's swings, Marzgurl continued to parry with her spear.

"Ha ha! Take this, you villainous Cloak!" Todd cried, finally getting a hang of this new "fighting" thing. He swung rapidly and passionately at his foe, a rather short, pasty-looking Cloak named Film Brain.

"It's not a Cloak, Todd, it's me! Film Brain!" Film Brain cried, ducking stinging blows from the plastic foil.

"I don't care! I can't see a thing!" Todd retorted, swinging even harder.

JewWario managed to distract two Cloaks with his cheap novelty ball. The Cloaks watched as the orb played back and forth across his springy fingers, dancing and twirling endlessly, until Marzgurl plowed her spear into their non-existent faces, knocking them both to the ground. Joe leaped down from the swings and placed the tip of his rapier in one Cloak's face.

"Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my lawyer—"

"Father!" the Cloak spat.

"Whoever! Prepare to die!" Joe reared back for the kill, but the Cloak managed to catch him in the knee and bring him down to the ground. The Cloak swung, but Joe rolled out of the way at the last second. In the keep, Marzgurl continued to swing at The Cloaks with her spear. Suddenly, her spear caught on one of The Cloaks' cloaks, and his weight nearly hefted her over the plastic rampart. The Snob managed to catch a hold of her at the last possible second.

"Marzgurl, I need your other hand!" The Snob strained against her weight. Marzgurl instead reached a hand toward her errant staff. It was just barely out of reach.

"Marzgurl, don't!" The Snob cried. "I can't hold on much longer!"

_"Tudoku katekiru!"_ I can reach it, she cried.

"It's not worth it! Give me your other hand!"

_"Tudoku katekiru!"_ Marzgurl repeated, stretching even farther. The Snob barely held on as she slipped further.

"Marzgurl!" The Snob shouted. Marzgurl refused to listen; she took one final lunge, tearing herself from The Snob's grip. She made a grab for the spear, but missed by mere inches. With a scream she fell into the abyss…

Three feet down the slide, where she came to a gentle stop at the end. The Snob put a hand to steady his head as he looked out over their proceedings. Spoony and Joe were busy engaging two Cloaks in a swordfight to the death involving fists. Paw was leaping up and down on top of the keep and shouting some kind of gibberish. Todd was dizzily fighting a pole.

"Alright, this is getting kinda silly…" he groaned.

Thankfully, the battle was suddenly interrupted by a shrill, piercing voice:

"Excuse me!"

The entire ensemble quit the fight at once, and turned to address their new interlopers. A middle aged woman was standing with her child near the edge of the playground/battlefield. It was apparent that the mother was mildly annoyed at these 20-somethings that were occupying her daughter's playtime with whatever the hell it was they were enacting.

"Uh... hello," she began cordially. "My daughter would like to play here, if you don't mind. So if you could stop... whatever it is you're doing and move, I'd really appreciate it."

"…But we're… fighting for the fate of mankind," Spoony replied, suddenly feeling very foolish.

"The gauntlet is... in danger…" Cloak One added halfheartedly. "The game... protection from evil... stuff like that."

"This is a public playground. For children." The lady retorted, much more forcefully this time. "My little girl wants to play on the jungle gym. I don't know what you and your little friends are doing here, but it looks as if you can do it just as easily somewhere else."

"Oh come on, lady!" Joe cut in. "We're almost done here; your daughter can wait like ten minutes! Besides, she looks way too big to play on a playground anyway! What, does she still believe in Santa Claus too?" That comment provoked a well-earned slap from Cloak One.

"My daughter would like to play here..." The woman groweled. _**"NOW."**_ She matched her words with a glare aimed at the majority of Team Two, but mostly at Joe.

"Alright, fine. Your daughter can play here," Spoony conceded in his normal voice, trying to diffuse the situation. "But if you could just give us a few more—"

"**_LEAVE."_**

Less than five seconds passed before the play equipment was totally deserted. The group slinked away as the happy child began to climb the structure, her mother watching her from a nearby plastic bench like a particularly maternal hawk. She shot a look at the retreating party that said "try and insult my daughter again, punks, and you'll be having a little unwelcome visit from my left foot."

"Insolent whelps," Cloak One grumbled. He turned to Spoony, who was slogging alongside him. "You should have let me take care of them, wizard. My magic would have convinced them readily to leave for another haven."

"Pay them no heed, my interrupted foe," Spoony replied in wizard form. "We shall instead make haste to another battlefield, one where parental permission matters not!"

"It's still kinda embarrassing, though…" The Snob complained. The others ignored him, and set off at full speed for other pastures.

* * *

"I have to admit…" Cloak One critiqued. "It's not as good as the last one."

"The other one had a sandbox!" Film Brain whined.

"It'll have to do," Cloak One commanded. "Alright, now Cloak Two was over there by the slide… yes, right there. And Cloak Three, you were on the jungle gym… a little further up than that… further than that, if you please… yes I'm sure you were there, don't argue! Are we ready? Good. Alright, now are we ready to get this fight back on the road?"

Cloak One turned around. He was addressing no one. The park they'd arrived at was deserted. The enemy treasure seekers had vanished whilst the Cloaks were retaking their positions. The battle was forfeit; Team Two would live to fight another day.

"Son of a bitch!" Cloak Three exclaimed. "They've run off like cowards!"

"I suppose we were a little too assuming of their moral character," Cloak One fumed.

"Son of a bitch!" Cloak Three repeated.

* * *

"And they say that cowards never prosper," JewWario mused as he walked. "How could they possibly assume that we would be such Boy Scouts?"

"They hail from the lost age of chivalry. 'Tis a given for them," Spoony replied jovially, a spring present in his step. "Too bad we hail from the age of loose morals and indecency, wherein no one is bound to another through any obligations whatsoever!"

"_Omorenimo soteyo!"_ Marzgurl added smugly.

"Whatever you said!" Spoony agreed. "Pay those cloakèd devils no hither no more! Onward, to adventure and the gauntlet!"

"Say, you didn't lose the map in the battle, did you?" Todd asked suddenly.

"Of course not! What sort of half-baked warlock do you take me for?" Spoony replied indignantly.

"You really want me to answer that?"

"No!"

Unbeknownst to the half-baked warlock and his ilk, the map had been lost. It lay abandoned on the road behind them, face up, pinned to the ground by an errant rock, its beguiling nature open to the entire world.

There could be no telling exactly who would stumble upon it.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Part 3 complete! Part 4 will be coming out tomorrow if I can swing it. I have Independence Day off from work.

-Xoanon


	16. Part 4, Chapter 15

**Part 4: The Sudden Twists**

**Chapter 15: A Powerful Being and a Poor Choice**

The Critic looked the map over for the billionth time. So far, they hadn't run into any other clues, which meant that they were getting very close to finding absolutely nothing. The rest of the team hadn't improved much from their caustic morning moods. Morale was still precipitously low, food was practically non-existent save for the half-eaten Powerbar Mickey was coveting in his grubby little hands, and The Critic, normally known for his immeasurably cool head under pressure, was starting to worry. If the long journey still refused to cease by midday, then it wouldn't be very long before he—the team's cherished, undaunted leader—would be forced to undergo yet another trial by pummeling.

"You know, Critic," Linkara said, cutting in suddenly on the Critic's ruminations, "I could'nt help but notice that you're not really getting into character…"

"What? That's baloney. I'm all magical and shit," The Critic replied. "And didn't you guys ask me that a couple miles ago?"

"We're just a tad concerned, my liege…"

"I told you to stop calling me that!"

"Sorry. But it's just that you told us once before that the map requires us to be in character constantly, in order to best find the route to the treasure. Being thespians helps us to find our own way, as it were…"

"Well, I'm Link," The Critic countered. "I don't have a character; I'm just a stand in for whoever's playing in the _Zelda _games."

"But you could at least try to give him one, couldn't you?" Linkara pressed. "Link is considered by many _Zelda_ fans to be noble, courageous, generous, chivalrous—a true hero, in other words. Perhaps you could channel your talents into acting as your complete opposite for a few leagues. That is, if you wish to do so, m'lord..."

"Fine, Sir Dicksalot," The Critic sighed. "If being in character help you figure out bullshit riddles so easily, tell me what this means:" He shoved the map into Linkara's face. "_'Ask which warrior which way to go. Which way do you think which warrior will show?' _Now tell me, how would being in character possibly help me solve that?"

A sudden crack of thunder split the air. The group looked up the barren roadway, which had inexplicably darkened into a writhing black maw of terrifying scale and proportion. Smoke billowed from the treetops, accompanied by the yowls and shrieks from untold numbers of demonic creatures that lay hidden from sight. The void swept up to them and stopped a good thirty paces off. The adventurers put hands on hilts, ready for their encounter with whatever this beastly game was now choosing to throw at them. They waited for a long time as the darkness swirled and coalesced in front of them.

Then, a single form erupted from the pitch, clad all in the darkest ebon and ringed in the eldritch mist of an unknown and unknowable era. The group scurried back from its wake. It stepped into the sunlight. The shadows cloaking the creature were burned away, revealing it to be… a middle aged woman dressed in what appeared to be a black track suit, a pointed hat, fake fingernails and schnozz glasses. She was rather pleased to see them, by the looks of it.

"Hello!" she exclaimed happily. "How ya doin'?"

The group didn't know what to think of her. The Critic looked down at the map again, frowning:

"Whoever wrote this couldn't spell for jack shit," he muttered, looking back up again at the witch. "You need a 't' in here for this pun to work, you know!"

"All-rightie, next time I see ol' Jaffers I'll give him the info!"

"You know Jaffers?" The Critic asked.

"Yup!" the woman replied.

"…Let me guess," The Critic guessed. "you're Witch Warrior?"

"Right-a-roonie!"

"Then tell us, Witch Warrior," Linkara asked kingly. "Which way must we take to reach our goal Malachite's Hand?"

"Hmmm…" the Witch Warrior thought pensively. "Let's see; you take one hundred paces to the bridge at the end of the path, turn left into the forest, keep going straight. Oh, and watch out for the cars when you cross the highway."

"Huh. Easy enough," Linkara marveled. The group agreed, coaxing their weapons back into their holsters. "Thanks for the tip, lady."

"Hold on there, kiddos," Witch Warrior cautioned. "Now, I don't mean to cause you any grief, but you have to pass by me in order to continue. It's my job as Good Witch of the Woods."

At this, the group snickered disdainfully. This chick was going to defeat them? Seriously? After they'd survived a beat down from a furry dervish, a three hour trek through bitter cold underbrush, and Linkara's near-constant singing, she was going to beat _them_? Yeah, sure. And Eight Bit Mickey was going to somehow magically break his addiction to goat porn.

"Really? You're the Good Witch of the Woods and we have to fight you?" The Nostalgia Critic asked.

"…Yeah, kinda." the Witch replied.

"Are we supposed to be scared of the _Good _Witch of the Woods?" Benzaie sneered.

"If you could, that would be nice."

Smirking like madmen, The Critic, Phelous, Sage and Linkara all stepped forward, ready to deliver a taunting unlike any they'd ever unleashed since their days in grade school. A few minutes of their relentless mockery would drive her back to the weird background effect from whence she'd come originally, leaving them free to pass through. This was probably the one wussy boss they'd get in this entire affair, so they all made mental notes to enjoy every minute of her suffering, including the numerous tears that were sure to come from their endless barrage of name-calling, insults, and defamations. They could be real dicks at times.

"Soooo, we're supposed to defeat you, eh?" Linkara questioned sarcastically. "Oh gee, this is so hard! I hope I don't give up in sheer despair at your raw display of power and might!"

"Well thank you, hon!" The Witch replied. "It's not every day you get a compliment like that!"

"Oh, it's our pleasure, Kiki!" The Critic cracked. "You're such a scary witch, aren't you? Such a scary, scary witch! Oooh, I'm frightened beyond all rational thought at the mere possibility of having to fight you! Oh, save me! Save me!"

"Well, that's a little out of proportion, but—"

"But nothing! This is the best laugh I've had in ages!" Linkara laughed heartily.

"Well that's not very nice—"

"You know what else isn't very nice? Your face!" The Critic guffawed. "You should really look into getting a nose job, or at the very least some wart remover!"

"Now see here, young man—"

"Even I—Aslan, defender of Narnia—think you are a joke," Sage accused jovially. "I mean good God, the White Witch I can see as a threat, maybe even the Wicked Witch of the West, but _you_?"

"_Rockbiter is seriously doubting your ability to bring it!" _Phelous croaked.

"You, madam, are very homely, and that hat is made from cheap plastic!"

"When was the last time you checked a reflective surface? Ever thought about getting Lasik, or failing that,_ a paper bag_!"

_"Yo momma so fat, you prick her and she bleeds maple syrup!"_

"Something something, you're a shitty adversary!"

"Alright, very funny. You've had your laugh..." The Good Witch of the Woods, as patient and kind as she was, was getting a tad tired of the four idiots who were now prancing around her like idiots, chanting something that sounded somewhat remotely like "jeejeejeejoojoojoogeegeewah". What miffed her the most was the fact that they just considered her some schmuck in a witch outfit wasting her time in the woods like they were. Just because she wasn't all doom and gloom and malevolent didn't mean she wasn't a badass; you didn't have to kill ten people a day just to prove a point. Underestimating an enemy like this was one of the stupidest possible things you could do in a game of skill and cunning. The whole thing was slowly raising the mercury in her gauge, getting her gorge up, spiking her blood pressure precipitously, and really,_ really_, _**really **_pissing her off.

"Fellas, seriously!" The Good Witch huffed. "Can't we just settle this like adults?"

"Ooooh!" The Critic squeaked. "_Oooooooow!_ The Good Witch is getting scaaaaared of the big bad warriors, isn't she? Isn't she? She's so scared, she has to cwy, cwy like a wittle giwl and wun away! Oh it's okay! It's okaaaaaaay! We can all dance around now, and be friends! C'mon fellas, let's all sing to the wittle witchy!"

"Okay, boys, you're about to be in serious trouble…"

"RING AROUND THE ROSEY, A POCKET FULL OF POSIES!" The four had now joined hands, and were now doing a circular dance around the hapless figure. The others had been observing the affair with great approval. This was probably the most enjoyable battle they'd partaken in so far. Even so, they had been inching cautiously back from the fray thanks to a dim notion from Tom that the Witch was probably a lot more powerful than she seemed. He was right.

"AAAAAASHES! AAAAAASHES! WE ALL FALL—"

The group instantly fell silent when the Witch's spindly arm lashed out to grasp the right arm of The Critic. Instantly, the other three broke ranks and drew their weapons to bear on the weird woman. All semblance of kindness had vanished from her face; no longer did she seem the matronly guardian of the inner woods. She was now the incredibly irate templar patron of the woods. Her mouth opened, and a blasphemy of language in the caustic, throaty scope of demons escaped to puncture the air with their stony rhythms:

_"__**You will perish in the flaming pits of Hell!" **_she shouted. The Critic screamed. He screamed incredibly loudly, tugging with all his might at the arm that was now held tight within the Witch's grasp.

"_**Yes! You shall be fed thrice to the grasping maws of the demons Asmodeus and Astaroth!" **_the beast continued. _**"A thousand torments shall you suffer in the ring of the liars, each more horrendous than the last! Your cries will be heard throughout all the City of Dis, and there shall be great pain!"**_

The Critic screamed even louder. He leapt and jumped around like a maniac in a straightjacket. The Witch still held fast to his arm. He tried to yank himself free. She still held on tight. In a mad attempt to free himself, he tried biting his arm off at the shoulder. The others, having long since abandoned their bravado, ran away to hide behind the women and other men folk, who, in retrospect, probably should have been fighting the witch in the first place.

_**A million needles shall stab into your pancreas daily! The butt-plug of Judas Iscariot shall be jammed into every orifice of your being!" **_the Witch shouted to the skies._** "You will be torn into bits and reassembled into a modern art piece for Satan's corner office! All shall look at you and marvel at your construction! An article shall be written about you in 'Blasphemer's Monthly'! You shall be declared 'tacky' and 'overwrought'!" **_

The Critic screamed louder than ever before. He pulled with all his might, digging his feet into the ground with great effort. Nothing worked. The Witch began to pull him closer, and closer, until he was almost eye level with her. Her irises were now bright red; her pupils were barely visible. Her teeth were filed into incredibly pointy, serrated fangs. Every so often, flecks of bile and spittle would escape from her throat to stain The Critic's glasses, tie and face. The Critic screamed again, a single long sustained note escaping from the bowels of his now entirely emptied lungs.

_**"YOU FOOL! THERE! IS! NO! ESCAPE! FROM! ME!" **_the Witch exclaimed, slapping The Critic with his own hand after each exclamation. _**"I am the Good Witch of the Woods, defender of the Game, guardian of Malachite's Hand! All who approach me perish in the flames of everlasting suffering and eternal torment!" **_

With a final, hearty scream, The Critic kneed the Witch in the groin area. Surprisingly, the tormenting hag toppled over, leaving The Critic free to run like hell. He leaped into the waiting safety of the group and held The Nostalgia Chick out in front of him, using her as a human shield against future attacks. Angered even further, The Witch semi-regained her composure and rounded on the hapless Awesome-teers. She summoned a mighty roar from the depths of her lower stomach. The earth shook violently. The group pinned their hands to their ears in a vain attempt to block out the warbling scream. It shook the very trees to their roots; the asphalt beneath her cracked. A bright light erupted from The Witch's hands and face. It grew brighter, and brighter, and the scream grew louder and louder, until the entire world was consumed.

And then, just as suddenly as it had happened, it was over. The Witch's light faded, leaving her with her normal perky grin on her face. Absolute silence overtook the woods once more. The group looked at their now much-more-than-ordinary adversary with a mixture of bewilderment, respect, and absolute pants-shitting fear.

"Pretty neat, huh kids?" she asked. The group instantly nodded their heads off in agreement.

"Stupid chain letter, I knew I shouldn't have tried to follow it!" The Critic cried, still cringing behind The Chick's cloak. "Why didn't any of you idiots try to warn me about this?"

"Chain letter?" the Witch asked. "I'm sorry, son, what was that?"

"Nothing!" The Critic zipped his lips, but it was too late. The Witch had already heard.

"A chain letter?" she thought out loud. "But Jaffers never…" and then for a brief moment a chilled, fearful look came across the Witch's face, replaced only by a sad knowing stare at the hapless party in front of her.

"Ohhh dear, that's not good…" she tsked, head shaking from side to side.

"What? What's not good?" Linkara asked carefully.

"Nothing, really. Nothing's good," the Witch said sadly. "It's just that… it would probably be best for all involved if you die now, rather than later."

The group remained silent. Death hadn't been part of the original plan The Critic had mentioned. Oh sure, death had been lurking in the background of all their lives, but it was still a very long way off, about fifty to sixty years in the future if they were lucky. Death now was a rather tall order, one that none of them really wanted to fill anytime soon.

"What?" Mickey cried. "We're all going to die?"

"Oh absolutely," the Witch replied, almost instantly. "And it would be a kindness for it to happen now, rather than to have you all sit around and wait for what's coming." Her tone was becoming slightly icier with each passing syllable, accompanied by an increasingly stony and morbid face. "Y'see, kiddos, I understand what's coming for you now. I know what hunts you. He's going to catch up with you eventually, and whenever he does, well… let's just say it's much nicer if I have you all line up single file so I can bash your brains in and drink from your bleeding skulls before he can do something much, much worse. Believe me, with what you're about to go through, I'll be doing you a favor."

She laughed. And then shrieked. And then disappeared inside a blazing block of lighting. Beams of electricity rained down on them, shocking people left and right, scorching the trees to pieces. Chunks of asphalt were uprooted to rain down upon them. All the while, The Witch's cackle echoed amongst the treetops in a happy and jovial revelry. The Critic shrieked, running for the ditch at the side of the road and leaping in. From there, he witnessed the carnage as Linkara was struck multiple times by several bolts, Phelous's tiny "friends" were melted into plastic goop, and Lupa fainted dead away. He saw Tom walking towards the storm spewing maniac… Tom?

"Tom? Tom! Where the hell are you going?" The Critic cried. Tom paid him no mind. He walked towards The Witch purposefully, holding a small can of… something on a string. He held the can out in front of him, like a metal crucifix. The Witch laughed. She was still laughing when Tom pressed the top of it and launched a spew of some aerosol straight into her face. Cursing and screaming, wiping her streaming eyes, The Witch disappeared in a flash of blinding light. They had won. Barely.

The team regrouped. Most of them were hurting severely. Linkara had several minor burn wounds lining his chest and arms; The Chick and Lupa were clutching at their sides in pain. Phelous was kneeling on the ground in front of his dead action figures, crying. The Critic, by contrast, had escaped with only a small red mark on his wrist where the Witch had grasped him. He turned to the group dazedly. He was pretty sure he wasn't the only one who had seen a grown women vanish into thin air.

"How… did she do that?" he asked. "Somebody tell me how she did that!"

"It's magic. It can't be explained," Linkara replied, breathing heavily and clutching at his chest.

"That's bullshit!" The Critic cried. "There's no such thing!"

"Really? Then how did she do it?" Linkara snapped back.

The Critic turned back to the empty path in front of them.

"Keep moving," he ordered. The group limped on in silence. No talking or laughing or singing was heard again for a long time. All the cockiness all the bravado and had drained out of them entirely. They were through with all that nonsense, now and forever, because what they were playing was no longer a game, and it wasn't fun anymore.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **This scene was a joy to write, especially the Good Witch.

-Xoanon


	17. Part 4, Chapter 16

**Chapter 16: A Fork in the Road**

"…and my dad shot her. Yeah, I know, it was weird. It was all because she was, like, y'know... hey, hold on a minute."

The girl looked down, her friend still yammering away on the line as she studied the object in the dirt. Lying on the dusty path, just past her Gucci boots, was a piece of paper with a bunch of squiggles on it. It was dirty, folded, mangled, stained, and torn in a whole bunch of places, like a dishrag that had been used far too often for far too many cleaning jobs. It looked almost like a map, or whatever. Maybe it was worth something. She bent down to pick it up.

The end of a thin black walking stick beat her to it. The girl looked up at the cane's owner, a tall black man dressed all in dark clothing. He was staring back down at her severely from behind sunglasses. There was no expression present on his face.

"Where did you find that?" he questioned sharply.

"Just here." The girl answered. "Is is yours?"

The man didn't answer. He looked down the path behind him. Was he following somebody, or something?

The girl stood back up slowly. The man followed her with unseen eyes, parchment now held firmly in one hand. She guessed that he was either the owner of the map or a total creeper, and from the lack of expression on his face she assumed it was the latter. She still hadn't noticed that the chattering from her phone was still going on, and that the man wasn't looking at her or at the map, but at the cell phone she held limply in one hand. He didn't seem to like it very much.

"Excuse me? Hello?" the girl asked. The man turned his attention back to her. "Is the map yours?"

Again, the man didn't answer her.

"Okay, then... I guess I'm taking it." She made a grab for the map in his hand. "Finders keepers, and all that. Plus you really don't want to litter—"

He didn't let go easily as she'd hoped. She tugged harder, and the corner of the map began to rip further. She pulled again. He pulled back, tearing the map out of her hand with great force. She almost bowled over as he began to study the filthy thing with great interest.

"Okay, I guess it is yours, then..." the girl replied huffily. Her phone started to chatter again, asking what was going on in her part of the world. She resumed her conversation:

"Huh? Oh no, Frank, it's just some _Rocky Horror_ reject... Yeah, some guy... No, I'm sure he isn't... Well, maybe..."

"Is that your phone?" the man asked. The sudden voice in front of her made her jump a little.

"Uh... yeah?" The girl replied.

"Don't use that."

"Why?"

"Just don't."

"Why not? It's a free country. I can talk on my phone in public if I want to." She replied irately. "Are you one of those Amish guys or something? Seriously, _lame_."

"What is your name?" the man asked.

"What's it to you?"

"What do you think of the 21st century?"

"I dunno, I can't see that far into the future." The woman was obviously upset at being interrupted from her important phone call, the one regarding someone being shot.

"Does your cocoon of technological webbing keep you safe?" the man continued. "Does it protect you from the true horrors of reality, from the real evils of this world? Do you truly feel better at knowing what every man, woman and child is doing at every waking moment in the day, across all your minute little spheres of existence? Every message, every podcast, every twit, Facebook, every single useless meme—how does any of this enrich your life? How? Does it give you any useful skills? Any discernible talent?

"Does it give you… _purpose?_"

"…Hey, you're kinda hot. Are you doing anything tonight?"

That was the last thing the girl said before she was incinerated. A thousand tiny chunks of her sped in every direction, the sudden fire spreading out in a thin ring from where she'd once stood. It dissipated quickly, leaving no physical trace of her behind. The netphone she'd been holding fell to the ground and shattered into pieces. It had been flash-cooked in the inferno, its plastic casing now as brittle as the splintered glass of its screen. The man turned on his heel and walked away, leaving a trail of thin red smoke behind him to waft up into the wind.

* * *

"The path is split!" Spoony cried. Team Two approached the crux of the roadway. One led north, winding off into another part of the woods, the other leading south, winding off into another, similar looking part of the woods. "No more shall we wander naked in the dark, for 'tis time to see where the next arrow lies!"

"You could just read the map and have us go left or right, Spoony," The Snob commented. "You don't need to give a huge speech every time."

"Damnable villains!" Spoony cried indignantly, pulling open the flap to his rucksack. "Such is the power of your folly, that you can'st see my roleplay lights the very fire of the story… um… all the better to… forsooth!... and…"

Spoony stopped rummaging. He checked his nonexistent pockets; nothing. The others waited patiently as he checked his rucksack again, then a third time, then his pockets again, and then underneath his robe. Finally, he gave up, a reddish aura creeping into the parts of his face not obscured by his beard.

"Oopsy doodle," he whimpered.

"What?" Todd asked.

"Well…"

"You lost the map, didn't you?" Todd accused, alarming the rest of the group.

"No, no, I'm not saying that…" Spoony corrected.

"Well what are you saying?" Todd questioned sharply.

"Well... I'm saying it now!" Spoony admitted. The entire group went up in an orgy of groaning. They'd lost the map, and now they were stranded in the middle of the woods in a bunch of dusty, battle scarred nerd ware. Things could easily get worse from here.

"This is intolerable," The Snob grumbled.

_"A pox on you and your unborn children!" _Paw snarled.

_"So! Onoji kotoyo!"_ Marzgurl agreed.

"Wait wait!" Spoony prompted, trying to save face. "I think I can remember what the last clue on the map was!"

"Oh please, you couldn't remember the goddamn alphabet!" Todd sneered.

"I remember it! Now let me think…" Spoony thought hard, immensely hard, back to thirty minutes ago when he'd held the map in his fingertips. The words weren't immediately clear, but after some recollection he spewed out: "I think it said… '_If the path should split from left to right, pick up the stone and say give me… light?'_"

"'Pick up a stone and say 'give me light'?" Joe repeated.

"I think that's it. It's the only line I can remember," Spoony offered.

"Oh, that's great! The one rhyme you can remember is the stupidest thing we've ever heard! I mean seriously…" The Snob bent down and picked up a stone. "You really expect me to just pick up a stone off the ground, stand here, and say 'give me light'?"

_**"DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!"**_

"Holy shit!" The Snob dropped the stone like it was made of molten lava. The others, completely oblivious to the screaming demon that had jumped at him from out of nowhere, looked at him as if he was nuts.

"What happened?" JewWario asked.

"Nobody else saw that?" The Snob inquired.

"No," everyone else answered.

"You just pick up a stone, stand here, and say 'give me light'—"

_**"RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—"**_

_"Fuck!"_ The Snob flung the stone over the treetops. "It actually works!"

"Okay, I'll try it," Luke picked up a stone.

"Like hell you will!" Film Brain accused. He wasn't about to let Luke get into everyone's good graces. He made a grab for the stone.

"No way! I said I'd do it, Spotted Dick!" Luke retaliated.

"Piss off, you Canuck fuck!" Film Brain spat.

"FINE! GIVE ME LIGHT!" they both said at the same time.

_**"HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOU!" **_A deranged lunatic sprung into their respective views. He was a figure cloaked in a black hood, matted hair flung wildly from left to right, dark circles spread underneath his eyes. He laughed sinisterly at the two interlopers to his rather dully furnished pocket realm. The Gatecleaner, junior guardian and janitor of the Blag'hole, now had two very unimportant guests.

_**"SO!" **_he shouted at them. _**"PUNY MORTALS! YOU ARE LOOKING FOR THE CORRECT PATH TO LEAD YOU TO MALACHITE'S HAND?" **_

"Yes…" the two Potters replied.

"_**THEN FOLLOW THESE WORDS CLOSELY, FOR I SHALL NOT REPEAT THEM… YOU MUST GO TO—"**_

Film Brain dropped the rock.

"Nice going, dude!" Luke critiqued as Film Brain stooped down to pick it up.

"Sorry," he replied sheepishly. "Give me light!"

_**"DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! DON'T LET THAT HAPPEN AGAIN!" **_the Gatecleaner bellowed. _**"THESE ROCKS ALREADY GET BAD RECEPTION!" **_

"Sorry…"

_**"GOOOOOD. NOW, YOU MUST GO TO THE—"**_

"Oh wait, let me write this down," Luke fumbled for something to write with, letting go of the rock in the process.

"Just remember it!" Film Brain ordered.

"Okay, fine," Luke sulked, retaking the rock.

"Like working with a form two…" Film Brain groaned. "Give me light!"

_**"DWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"**_

"Seen it," the two replied.

_**"THEN STOP DROPPING THE DAMN ROCK ALREADY! I'M A BUSY MAN, AND I HAVEN'T GOT ALL DAY!"**_

"Yes sir."

_**"ALRIGHT! BUT THIS IS THE LAST TIME I HELP YOU, I SWEAR TO GOD! IF YOU MISS IT, YOU MISS IT. NOW GO—!"**_

At that moment Luke's phone rang. Luke broke the connection once more to answer it. Behind the two, the group threw up their hands in frustration.

"Hello?" Luke said. "Oh, hi Mom… Yeah, I'm with friends. I'm on a hunt for buried treasure… No, it's real this time… Yes, I swear… No, I won't bring home the deed to another bridge… Okay, love you too. Bye."

Luke hung up and retook the rock. "Sorry, she gets worried sometimes."

"I bet," Film Brain responded. "Give me light!"

"_**HRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"**_

"Do you have to do that every time?" Luke groaned.

"_**I'm contractually obligated to yes NOW STOP DROPPING THE DAMN ROCK!" **_

"Wait, I've got an idea," Film Brain bounced the rock off his hand. It went up into the air and came down again on top of both their palms. "Give me light!"

"_**DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!"**_

The rock rebounded from their momentum and came down again. "Give me light!"

"_**DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"**_

The rock rebounded a third time. "Gimme light!"

"_**AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!"**_

And again. "Gimmelight!"

"_**HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"**_

Again. "Gimilight!"

"_**DRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"**_

"This is fun!" Film Brain laughed.

"_**DROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! STOP IT, YOU INSOLENT MAGGOTS, STOP!" **_ The Gatecleaner screamed. _**"I'VE SEEN THREE HEADED HELLSPAWN MORE COOPERATIVE THAN YOU! NOW DO YOU WANT TO KNOW THE STINKING LOCATION OR NOT!"**_

"Yes," the two finally agreed.

"_**Alright then. Go to the fork in the road, take the right hand path, continue forth. Got it?"**_

"Yes."

"_**Good! Never call this number again you little bastards! Now if you excuse me, I have rock waiting!"**_

The Gatecleaner dismissed them, switching over to his other rock call. _**"WAAAAAAAAAAA!" **_A homemaker in a muumuu and red tresses was waiting on the other line, cigarette in hand. _"Honey, did you remember to pick up the croutons_?" she asked in a gravely tone.

"_**I told you to check the pantry. I'm not buying another box of croutons when we already have an open box!" **_

* * *

**Author's Notes: **This scene is a bit weaker than the others, I think. Hopefully the rest of Part 4 will be solid. I'm a bit tight this week.

-Xoanon


	18. Part 4, Chapter 17

**Chapter 17: The Encounter(s)**

"Alright, everyone, I've figured it out!" Luke announced triumphantly, dropping the rock and leaving Film Brain blinking idiotically in the sunlight. "We're supposed to take the path to the right and continue on straight."

The others, still a little bit wary at having just seen two of their comrades spaz out in the middle of the dirt path for no apparent reason, nevertheless took the apparently divinely received news well. That is, until they saw something unnerving behind the two, and then the smiles slowly dissapeared from their faces, replaced with a light uncomfortableness. Film Brain and Luke both turned around. Standing behind them in the middle of the road was the dark man.

He stood motionlessly, bow-legged with walking stick held in his hand. He was looking directly at them with his unblinking glass eyes. A chill passed over the members of Team Two, as if a part of the sun had briefly been extinguished eight minutes ago and they were just now receiving the information. The man made no attempt to walk towards them. He just continued to stand there.

"Who the hell's that guy?" The Snob asked Todd.

"Dunno," Todd replied. "He kinda looks like a member of Run DMC."

The man moved slightly. The others flinched.

"Is… he friendly?" Film Brain asked, taking a cautious step backward.

"Let's hope so," The Snob put a hand on his whip. Spoony stepped forward, staff in hand. The others tightened into formation. Whoever this guy was, chances are he was a potential threat more than anything else. After they'd almost lost their battle with The Cloaks, they weren't too willing to give anything else in this game the upper hand.

The man began to walk slowly toward them. His stride was measured, purposeful, almost like he was walking off from some nonexistent fire he'd started for some reason, as if it said, "yeah, I started that fire. It's no big deal, really." The group spread out along the road, forming a barricade with Spoony, JewWario, The Snob, Paw and Marzgurl out in front. The man continued forward. JewWario, being the bravest (and so far, most deflective) member of the group, walked out to meet him. Both their paces slowed to a stop as they met each other.

"Uh," JewWario spoke briefly. "May we help you, strange… Gestapo-looking person?"

The strange, Gestapo-looking person didn't answer. He merely reached into his pocket. The others put hands on weapons, leaning forward. That pocket looked pretty dangerous from where they were standing. JewWario leaped backwards to shield the others from the blow, or at least get out of the man's attacking range. Rapidly, the man pulled out…

Their missing map. He held it out to them succinctly. The others were baffled.

"You dropped this," he said.

JewWario stretched out a careful hand and took it from the stranger. "Well, thank you very much!" he responded cheerily, turning back to the group. "Such a nice man; we should give him a reward, shouldn't we? Sir, what's your—?"

The man had disappeared when JewWario's back was turned.

He turned back. "Where'd he go?"

The others, who had been watching, had no idea. One moment he was there, the next he was not. It was as if he'd vanished into thin air.

"Oh well, on to the next marker!" Spoony cried, lightening the mood. They turned to face the right side of the road again. They jumped in terror.

The Cloaks were standing there. Their leader, obviously somewhat glad to have them back in his clutches, was waving merrily. Chances are, he had a horrifying grin on the un-face hidden beneath his cloak.

"_Tori ecchi!"_ Marzgurl swore.

"Run like children!" Spoony cried again. Like eight rays of light, Team Two took off down the right hand path. Cloak One turned to the subordinate on his left and spoke:

"Unleash the Fire of a Thousand Arrows," he commanded.

"You mean the enchanted machine gun?" s/he replied.

"Yes."

Complying, the Cloak reached beneath his/her robe and pulled out an M-80. It was crafted from wood and hand-furnished steel. Every inch of it crackled with a strange, mystical purple energy. The Cloak fired, sending a spray of hot lead into the afternoon air accompanied by several loud bangs. Its range was impressive; the projectiles soon caught up with Team Two, streaking past them like a swarm of angry supersonic bees. Only Joe, the only person not caught up in the retreat, was able to assemble a proper counterattack.

"Wait! I didn't know we could use machine guns!" he said happily. Turning to face the hailstorm, he prepared to give a little retaliation of his own.

_"So, joo think joo fahking Cloaks are man enough to take me? Hokay!"_

He produced his own gun, an M-16 model assault rifle, from the scabbard strapped to his back. The Cloaks were caught completely by surprise. They hadn't expected Joe to pull off a little magic of his own.

"MY NAME IS INIGO MONTOYA, MOTHERFUCKERS!" Joe screamed. He continued firing wildly in every direction possible until the Cloaks began to fall back. They blocked the never-ending stream of bullets with their swords as a manner of covering their retreat.

"KING KONG AINT GOT SHIT ON ME!" Joe continued his violent outburst until Marzgurl came to pull him back to the group, and sanity. "_Kuyo, Ted Nugent-san!"_ she cried. Joe still kept firing until they caught up with the rest of the group, who were standing out of breath and exhausted behind a clump of cattails at the path's end.

"Ho ho, man! That was crazy!" Joe marveled, eyes still burning bright with the flash from his gun's muzzle. "I'm liking this character more and more every minute!"

"I don't think Montoya's weapon of choice was a submachine gun," The Snob replied.

"Maybe not, but if he'd lived to see it get invented, it definitely would be!" Joe shot back.

"Hey, did anybody see if Film Brain got away with us?" Luke asked suddenly.

The others looked at him, panting all the while.

"Who cares?" Todd replied.

* * *

Film Brain certainly did. During the escape, he somehow managed to get knocked into a cluster of weeds standing next to a dry riverbed. The others had passed right by him in their desperate flight from The Cloaks and their deadly lead-spitting cannon of doom. He had no idea how he'd gotten there, though he had some good guesses, most of them involving that bastard Luke.

He pulled himself out of the muck and began to pick straw and dirt clods off his costume. Perfect, he thought. Now he was stranded, and the rest of the group had no idea where he was. Who knew what trouble they could get into without his help?

"Hello?" he shouted. "Anybody here?"

He started walking, coming across a clearing in the middle of the patch of forest that ran next to the road. "Did we win?"

A hand closed around his shoulder. Film Brain was pulled close to a gigantic black shape. He looked up into the gigantic black shape's face. Or lack of a face, to put it more accurately. Two other dark figures lumbered up close behind their leader. They might have lost the battle with Team Two for lack of superior firepower, but The Cloaks had gained a relatively small victory. The Cloaks had captured Film Brain.

"Anything to say for yourself, wizard?" The Lead Cloak hissed.

"Uh… _Exo petroleum!" _Film Brain warbled, pointing his wand at the shade.

"Nice try." Cloak One threw the wand away and slapped Film Brain in the face. He stumbled to the ground. The other two Cloaks came after him, propping him up by the arms. Cloak One knelt down to face him. The time had come to try out a little black magic on their hapless new victim.

"Look into my eyes…" he said.

"I can't see your eyes, they're covered up," Film Brain whimpered.

"Oh. Well then pretend you can see my eyes."

"Okay."

"Look into them."

"AAAAAAH!"

"You are now one of us, Film Brain. One of us..." The Lead Cloak continued. "You are now a defender of the game. You will protect the honor of the game at all costs. No players who are unworthy must reach the prize that is Malachite's Hand. You are now one of us…"

"One of us, one of us..." The other two Cloaks began to repeat the magic phrase along with their chief. Film Brain tried to resist, but the pull of their chanting was too strong. His mind was a complete blank, made even blanker by the swirling black nightmares that now assailed him. All his defenses were swept aside as The Cloaks poisoned his mind, his soul, his very being. Finally, he had no choice but to accept their words as fact. It was true, he thought as his vision winked out, it was all true. He was one of them. He was one of them.

One of them.

One of them.

_Did I leave the range on at home?_

One of them.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Wow, only three chapters again with Part 4. Either I need to write shorter chapters or figure out a way to elongate them.

Part 5 will show up next week.

-Xoanon


	19. Part 5, Chapter 18

**Part 5: The Plot Congeals**

**Chapter 18: Entering the Hallowed House of Hallows**

The forest road terminated in a small cul-de-sac far from where the group had originally begun their quest, and as The Critic stepped out of the bushes he began to hope desperately that this would be the end of it. The group had slogged for five miles more through the wilderness; their bodies were weary and cold, tempers were flaring. The gauntlet had to be here, or at least close by. It just had to be.

Slowly, quietly, they crept up to the front door. The Critic took point and twisted the knob. Surprisingly, it was unlocked. Linkara was right, he thought as he opened the door and cautiously peaked inside, someone was waiting for them. They would have to be on their guard. They had managed to get this far without dying, and it would do them no good now to throw it all away in carelessness.

"…Hello?" The Critic said cautiously. The ground floor was deserted. He crept inside, motioning for the others to follow. After a quick spot check of the kitchen, living room, and bathroom they began to climb the stairs. It led them to a small landing stuffed with shelves and boxes. The floor was littered with half-done laundry, pizza bagel boxes and DVD cases. A television sat in the corner, unplugged. There was still no occupant to be found.

"Hello?" The Critic called again. "Anyone home? We're the adventurers. We've come to claim the magic glove."

"Do you really think this is wise, Critic?" Benzaie questioned. "I mean, I don't know about America, but breaking and entering is kind of illegal in France."

"The map told us to come here," The Critic said, holding it up for Benzaie to see. "_'Go down the Chestnut nearest in sight, where the brick castles lay, third one on the right.' _We're on Chestnut Road and this is the third house on the right. It has to be here. Haven't we had this conversation before?"

"Yes. But it gets more extreme each time we have it," Benzaie replied.

"Hey guys?" Mickey asked from behind. "Is this going to take much longer? Because I don't think Phelous is holding up too well..." He gestured to the stony figure that lay hunched over the railing next to him, staring blankly at his hands. Absent from his person were the two action figures he'd been carrying with him since the start of the quest—his two closest friends. They were gone now. The Good Witch of the Woods had smote them, melting them down into two little puddles of plastic goop. He balled his hands into fists and let them go again, as if by magic he could will his friends into returning to his grip. It didn't work. They were still dead.

_"They look like big, good, strong hands… don't they?" _he said quietly. _"My little friends… I just couldn't hold on to them…"_

"He'll be fine. Relax, Mickey," The Critic waved a hand. Phelous burst into tears. "Alright, there's nothing up here. Let's try the basement."

At once, the entire group did an about face and trundled back down the steps. Or at least they would have, if Ma-Ti hadn't been blocking the landing. He was holding a small tome in one hand, looking up at The Critic with a friendly smile.

"Critic! I found the perfect book for Mickey!" he beamed, holding the book up in one hand. "It's called _Goat Fuckers for Dummies_! It's the number one bestseller on weirdkinkysemilegalsex dot net!" The others, hardened though they were at all assortments of pornography, flinched at the illustration on the cover, which was a graphic depiction of a man and a goat doing several unspeakable things at once.

"How the hell does he keep finding us?" Benzaie hissed through clenched teeth.

"He's real persistent…" The Critic grimaced, rolling up his sleeves. He stomped back down the stairs, scattering teammates left and right. Ma-Ti had already opened the book and was now reading from a specific passage:

"According to the book, Mickey's problems stem from the fact that he is emotionally disconnected from others," he read. "That disconnect leads him to project all his numerous problems and anxieties onto a specific psychosexual object; namely, goats." Ma-Ti looked up at Mickey. "Mickey, you don't have to worry. We all understand you, and we accept you."

Mickey, who was again staring icily at the back of The Critic's head in the hopes that he could somehow give him an aneurysm, gave Ma-Ti's proclamation two thumbs up.

"_Ma-Ti… Good job. Really good job..."_ The Critic spat, clasping onto Ma-Ti's shoulders so forcefully that he was cutting off the circulation to his arms. "_Really really good job. I am so proud of you right now I just can't fucking stand it." _

"So does that mean I can finally be part of your special team?" Ma-Ti asked.

"Almost!" The Critic said. "Almost, Ma-Ti! There's just one last mission I need you to run! One last tiny—"

_"Okay, fine! I get it!"_ Ma-Ti cried suddenly. "All you guys do is send me on these stupid fetch quests that don't amount to anything in order to keep me occupied! Because you guys don't want me on the team! Because you think I'm useless, because you guys think heart is a useless power, and that I have nothing to contribute to the greater team effort! _NOTHING!_"

"Ma-Ti! That couldn't be further from the truth!" The Critic cried, even though that was the truth and he knew it.

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely, Ma-Ti," The Critic said. "We need you on this team, and the only reason that you're not on the team now is that we have to get all the boring stuff out of the way. Once we find the true location of the gauntlet, you can join, and then the really dangerous and adventurous stuff begins! Okay?"

"Okay!" Ma-Ti shouted. _"What's the special mission you want me to do?"_

"The special mission is… to go get me a coffee."

"…Coffee?"

"Yes, coffee. A double mocha frappuchino latte from the Starbucks downtown." The Critic turned to the group. "You guys want anything?"

They nodded no.

"Just the latte, then." The Critic gave Ma-Ti a small pat on the head, and then started off towards the basement. The rest of the team filed off silently behind him. Dejected, Ma-Ti turned and walked slowly out the door, his dreams now crushed into a fine powder.

* * *

The stairs leading down to the basement were dark, and creepy. Team One climbed down single file through the creepy darkness, the stairs creaking beneath them, plank by plank, as they inched toward the bottom landing. There was another room beyond it, lit with an eerie bluish radiance that spilled out of it and fell upon the stained carpet. There was no door. As they reached the landing, something resembling a groan emanated from the hollow. More noises followed—more groans, and a curious scraping resembling the sound of gravel shifting underfoot. The Critic inched forward, his Master Sword drawn. The others walked close behind. They all had a distinct feeling they were heading into the cave of a monster.

The Critic stepped into the cave first. It was surprisingly roomy and inviting; a television was blaring out something that looked like _COPS,_ the walls were lined with storage shelves and boxes no doubt filled with old junk. Outdated, unused exercise equipment cluttered the corners. There was dust everywhere. In the center of the room, there lay a sofa chair, and sprawled upon it there laid the source of the noises. Its bulk was prodigious, spilling every which way on top of the cushions. It was hairy in all the wrong places. Every so often it would unleash another burble or squeak from its gullet.

"Blast," The Critic cursed, drawing back to the foyer. "This place is heavily occupied."

"What should we do?" Linkara asked.

"Fear not," The Chick said ponderously. "For the Elvish magic I wield will most surely distract him."

The Chick stepped into the room, white gown flowing due to some unexplained new wind source. The monster was beset upon before he even realized what was happening to him; in one moment he had been watching a drunken frat boy being hauled into the back of a police cruiser on a flickering CRT screen, and in the next he was in a majestic void, the combined choral voices of a million Elves chanting in his ears. He sat there and listened to the siren song and the divine lyrics therein:

_O won'drous beast! Beast of untold wonder!_

_Hiding in a cave of antiques, a sun_

_-dried cavern. We are but humble tourists, _

_ With all heads empty and with hearts purest_

_(Mekka lekka hi mekka hidi ho_

_ Doth not Caradhras have beautiful snow?) _

_Perhaps we may rest a while in your tomb? _

_ From the vile weather that portends our doom?_

_We promise not to steal anything, _

_ Unless it would look really cool as bling _

_(Mekka lekka hi mekka hidi ho_

_ Doth not Caradhras have beautiful snow?) _

_ But seriously, can we stay or not?_

_ Our prospects outside aren't looking so hot _

_ We're going to die, apparently soon_

_ And we haven't eaten since half past noon _

_(Mekka lekka hi mekka hidi ho_

_ Doth not Caradhras have beautiful snow?) _

_ We are at your call, O hoarder of things, _

_ The gobbler of bacon, eater of kings_

'_Tis your prudence, we await a reply_

_ Don't let us stay and I'll stab out your eye _

_(Mekka lekka hi mekka hidi ho_

_ Doth not Caradhras have beautiful snow?) _

As the song of begging finished, the beast settled back further into his Lay-Z-Boy. He continued to sit there pensively for some time. Finally, he spoke to the assembled warriors:

"You guys are here for the quest thing, right?" he asked.

The team nodded yes in unison.

"You're not vagrants or anything from the shelter down the block?"

The team nodded again.

"About damn time. I've been waiting here for like thirty years for someone to show up," the monster sighed, relieved. "The book thing's over there, I think."

He gestured to a series of storage racks near the back of the room. The team was still wary of the monster's motives, as well as his constant settling and resettling on the chair, but after a while he became transfixed on his TV program again. After they'd made sure it wasn't a trick, they all piled into the room, carefully creeping across the shag carpeted floor of the basement, and made for the shelves.

"Consider yourself lucky. I would have totally owned your ass," The Chick grumbled as she rejoined the team by the shelves. The Critic stepped to the front of the group. The object that was supposed to have been on the shelves was instead sitting complacently on the top of a desk in the midst of the clutter, an old-looking copy of something buried beneath several styrofoam cups and Chinese takeout boxes. The Critic lifted it from the squalor and studied it carefully. Surprisingly, it hadn't sustained any noticeable damage from its neglect. The leather binding was slightly worn, and the inscription etched around its edge had faded too much to be deciphered, but otherwise the thing was stainless. A strange bejeweled eye stared back at the team from the cover. It was a seal of some kind.

"What is it?" Benzaie asked as The Critic undid the straps holding the book closed.

"It looks like a book of spells," Linkara replied, peering over The Critic's shoulder at the archaic pages within. The Critic flipped through the book rapidly. Most of its characters were nothing but simplistic squiggles, but occasionally a few precepts could be gleaned from the pictures the book also contained. One pictogram showed a person levitating into the air. Another showed someone firing a bolt of lightning from their hand. Still another showed a man suffering from what looked like hundreds of large needles being driven into his body forcibly by several people standing in a circle. Aside from the many gory graphics, nothing else in the tome was legible in English, or in any other modern language for that matter.

"Well, I'm thoroughly freaked out now," The Critic sighed, closing the book. "I've got to give points for effort, though. Whoever designed this was really committed to the craft."

"Wait, there's a bookmark on that page," Lupa pointed to a thin sheet of paper sticking out of the book near the back cover. "What does it say?"

The Critic turned to the page. It was covered lengthwise by a woodcut of a distorted man knotted in pain and screaming. The others jumped back several feet.

"JESUS!" The Critic almost threw the book away from him in a fit of panic. He shut the offending pages tightly, hands still grasping the book.

"Wait, I think I saw some words near the bottom!" Sage said.

"I'm not opening it again! You do it!" The Critic handed the book to Sage, who opened the book without fear and began deciphering the message at the bottom of the picture. It was only one sentence, this time written in a pseudo-Latin script. After several moments of grappling with the phrase and turning it over in his head, Sage ventured a small guess:

"Klaatu barada… necktie?"

And suddenly, the entire basement glowed with the light of a million suns.

* * *

The dark stranger stopped.

A powerful lurch in his gut told him everything; a power spike had surfaced in a small suburb not far from where he stood. It was the other team. They'd found... him? _NO! Idiot!_ He'd been going the wrong way this whole time! They were closer, behind him somewhere in a nearby neighborhood. He had to hurry. He couldn't let them reach the end before…

Quickly, he turned on his heel and began walking swiftly in the other direction, toward the source of the power that was now grasping at his entire body. The final confrontation was fast approaching. The game master had returned to the world.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **The congealing is taking place nicely...

-Xoanon


	20. Part 5, Chapter 19

**Chapter 19: The Return of Chuck Jaffers**

"Wow," Chuck Jaffers said. "What a rush, man."

The newly-reconstituted Gurnee-area game store clerk was standing in the middle of the storage racks, blinking idiotically at the group of adventurers that were staring idiotically at him. He had on the same shirt he'd worn during the news segment, the same haircut, the same glasses, and the same goofy expression. The spell in the book had just resurrected him from a thirty-year stay within its ancient pages. It was a long while before anyone spoke.

"Holy crap, it's that guy from the TV!" Benzaie shouted.

"Yeah! You're Chuck Jaffers!" The Critic cried.

"Guilty as charged," Jaffers said, waving a hand. "Wow, you guys must be the heroes I've been looking for! You've been through the game?"

"Yeah, we've been through the game…" The Critic breathed tiredly.

"That's awesome, man! Really awesome!"

"Ah, Mr. Jaffers," Linkara stepped forward suddenly. "Lewis Lovhaug, comic reviewer. If I may be so bold as to ask a question of you?"

"Shoot."

"Very well, then… what the heck were you doing in a book?"

"Oh, well that's Malachite's book, man," Jaffers replied matter-of-factly. "He's the one who put me in there in the first place."

"Wait, Malachite?" The Critic repeated. "There was an actual Malachite? Malachite as in 'Malachite's Hand' Malachite?"

"Sure, man. Who d'you think named the gauntlet?" Jaffers answered.

"Why'd he put you in there?" Mickey asked.

"Oh, that's a sad story…" Jaffers said. "Y'see, Malachite and me used to be partners, and when he found out what I was doing with his work, he wasn't too happy..." he shivered. "That dude is really messed up if you ask me."

"How long have you been in there?"

"I dunno. Three, four weeks, maybe?" Jaffers pondered. "What year is it?"

"2011," someone said.

"Thirty years? Wow…" Jaffers breathed. "That's gotta be like some kind of a record for world's longest power nap, or something."

"So what have you been doing, besides being trapped in a book?" The Chick questioned.

"Reading, mostly," Jaffers answered. "Lots of reading. But the upside is that I can do most of the spells in the book now without setting myself on fire, so whenever Malachite comes back for me, I'll be ready to dish out the dirt."

"Wait, when he comes back for you?" The Critic repeated again. "Who is this Malachite guy, anyway?"

"Well, again, it's a real sad story…"

"Okay, but if you could just tell us what—"

"And, in all seriousness, it's a really creepy story too…"

"Alright, just tell us ho—"

"I mean reeeeeeeallly creepy…"

"Will you jus—"

"There's a lot of freaky stuff involved, is what I'm saying…"

"JUST TELL US." The Critic grasped Jaffers by his shirt and lifted him into the air. "I KNOW THERE'S FREAKY STUFF INVOLVED HERE. I'VE SEEN A LOT OF FREAKY STUFF HAPPEN TODAY. PLEASE JUST TELL US WHAT THE CRAP WE'RE UP AGAINST HERE SO I DON'T HAVE TO DIE WHILE SOAKED IN MY OWN PEE."

"Okay, man. Just relax," Jaffers gibbered. "I'll tell you."

"Thank you." The Critic lowered Jaffers back onto the basement floor. After a moment's composure, Jaffers began to relate his tragic tale to his newfound audience.

"Alright, I'll give you the whole story," Jaffers began. "At first I thought Malachite was just a really hardcore D&D player. He was a brilliant dungeon master. He knew all the tricks; how to set up dungeons that were unbeatable even with high level characters. He knew a whole bunch of really weird things too, mostly historical stuff like who won the Battle of Averroes or how many people were present at Charlemagne's coronation. He also told me Gygax had no clue about the world he was trying to relate to us through the game's system. We had a whole bunch of arguments over the Advanced Edition codex, let me tell you…"

"Stick to the interesting parts, please," The Chick requested.

"Oh, sorry," Jaffers replied. "Basically, he thought the game was real. He acted like he'd done stuff from the game in real life. He told me he knew real druids once, and that they used to live over in Ireland before St. Patrick wiped them all out. He said that he'd actually fought liches and giants and dwarves, and that he'd met actual pointy-eared elves once. He said he'd seen Beholders before—like real Beholders, and that they taste like bacon when you roast em'. Oh yeah, he was hardcore, alright, perhaps a little _too _hardcore…"

"No, really?" The Critic said sarcastically.

"Yeah, really. Anyway, I was researching a LARP I wanted to run with some of my friends. I called it _'Gauntlets of Razzmatazz'_—"

The group had to stifle a laugh at this.

"—and he said he wanted to help flesh it out. He really got into it, aside from the name. A little _too_ into it… So after I'd finished with my preliminary notes, I started doing research on the gauntlet. He helped me out with that too. It was at that time I noticed he was starting to get obsessed—a little _too_ obsessed—with the gauntlet we were going to use. He went on and on about how it was the artifact he'd been searching for all these years, and that he was going to use it to bring about the Second Era of the Supernatural, or something. And I dug it, man, I really dug it…"

The Critic exchanged glances with the rest of the group, hopinh that they were just as uneasy as he was. They were. The fear showed in their vaguely seasick faces. So this was who they were up against, the figure relayed to them by the mad Witch of the Woods. A power mad, tabletop gaming psycho who thought that fairy tales and the Middle Ages were so awesome he wanted to bring them back for everyone to enjoy. So far, this Malachite person sounded like a delightful fellow.

"...I mean, I'd seen some heavy players in my time, but he had to be the heaviest. There was some real passion in his soul, man, passion for the game. The way he dressed, the way he talked about it, he made it sound like it was all real…"

"A little _too_ real?" Sage finished tiredly.

"Yeah, like that." Jaffers tone was sadder, and more solemn now. "And that's when it hit me: it _was_ real, all too real. But I was too late to stop it; a little _too_ too late. So I grabbed my research, along with everything I'd found on the gauntlet, and I ran. After deciphering the last couple of clues using Tobin's Spirit Guide, I managed to figure out its final resting place. I knew I couldn't let him use it—all the writings said only the purest, most noble people could ever touch the Hand. I knew that if he ever got his hands on the Hand, it would be baaaaaad voodoo for everybody."

"So you tried to fight him?" The Critic guessed.

"Exactamundo. At first, I tried to banish him into the book myself, but that didn't go so well. He told me to tell him where the gauntlet was, but I refused, so he trapped me in the book instead. Ironic, isn't it?"

_"BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIG STROOOOOOOOOOOOONG HAAAAAAAAAAANDS!" _Phelous cried suddenly from behind. The others yelled at him to shut up. He fell silent.

"Fortunately, when he sealed me in, he forgot to take out the bookmark, so you guys managed to pick up where I left off: the Resurrection Spell."

"And the gauntlet?"

"I managed to hide it in another location before Malachite found me. That's what the game and map are for. You follow the clues and it leads you to the gauntlet's location."

"So that's where the map came from..." Benzaie realized. The entire group turned to fume silently at The Critic.

"Hey, how was I supposed to know it was real?" he whined.

"After I was imprisoned, the game's defenses fell dormant and waited for someone to find the map," Jaffers continued, unaware that The Critic was now being brutally stabbed to death inside the minds of his comrades. "I made it so they would stop any who tried to use the gauntlet for evil purposes, so that only the valorous and the pure at heart could find the gauntlet, just like the writings said."

"Why couldn't Malachite just pick up the map and find the gauntlet himself?" Lupa questioned.

"Because, my dear lady..."

"Don't ever call me that again."

"…Malachite is many things, but he is definitely not pure at heart. He has no love of games, or patience for riddles, man. For those things you must have dreams, imagination, creativity, and most importantly the brainpower and reasoning skills of a five-year-old."

"Well, that's us!" Sage said happily.

"Exactly what I wanted to hear, man! I wrote the game as a quest, something for people who love fantasy and want to keep it alive. That's why I researched it, and that's why my friends decided to help me by serving as its obstacles."

"Obstacles?" Mickey questioned.

"Wait a minute," The Critic said. "Those nutball freaks of nature that have been chasing us all day were your friends?"

"Yeah! How'd they do?"

"Pretty good…"

"Like, pretty good or just good?"

"Just good."

"Cool! I knew they'd be good at it; I taught them the same stuff Malachite taught me. The dark stuff, man…"

"So that's the explanation!" The Critic marveled. "In your face, Linkara!"

"It's still magic! Knowing the source doesn't make it any more explicable!"

"Anyway, once he found out that I was teaching some of my friends his voodoo, that led to him and me working on the game until he banished me. And I waited here until you guys—heck, you heroes—showed up!"

"That's pretty much the gist of it," The Critic said proudly.

"Wait, there's still one thing that doesn't add up," Linkara wondered. "Why did Malachite just leave the book here where anyone could find it?"

"I dunno. I guess he just thought nobody would ever look here for it."

"Where did this Malachite guy come from?" The Critic asked.

"That, my friend—"

"Acquaintance."

"That, my acquaintance, is an epic tale spanning from many centuries ago to the present, one that I can'st tell the whole of here. What I can tell you is that he travels the back roads and byways of the countryside with an enchanted staff in one hand. He speaks no words, is seen by few, and he hates—hates with a fiery passion—all who use the accursed technology of this modern world.

"Here's a picture of him, just in case you guys meet up." Jaffers lazily grabbed an old Polaroid photo from a scrapbook located conveniently on the shelf behind him. The Critic snatched it up, and the others crowded around it for a closer look. The man in the figure was dark skinned, with long curly black hair and black leather clothes. He wore sunglasses and carried a wooden staff. He sure looked like bad news, The Critic thought.

"So what's 2011 like anyway?" Jaffers asked, his mind suddenly flooded with questions about the future-scape he was now a terribly outdated part of. "Do we have jetcars? Is Harvest James Barclay still touring? Did you guys ever get a president worse than Carter?"

"No, I don't know, and _God_ yes," The Critic answered succinctly.

"So… what do you guys do?"

"We're internet reviewers," The Critic replied unabashedly.

"The… internet?" Jaffers queried, suddenly looking a lot less cheerful. "You mean the old ARPAnet project? Y'know, that DOD bullshit?"

"That's where it came from, yeah."

"Only it's a lot different now," Lupa added. "It's less of a government project and more of an open cesspit where people bitch about pointless shit…"

"Purchase mail order brides and illegal stuff…" Benzaie continued.

"Write crappy fan fiction…" Linkara started.

"And porn! Don't forget the porn!" Sage butted in. The others all agreed in unison.

"Oh man, porn?" Jaffers said dejectedly. "Like, lots of porn?"

"Lots of porn, oodles of porn, pornfields as far as the eye can see!" The Critic cried.

"Oh no…" Jaffers nodded his head from left to right, as if he refused to believe that so much porn could ever be accumulated in one magical place. "Oh no, no, no man, this isn't what I was expecting at all…"

"What? You don't like porn?"

"No, I do… but it's just not right for the keepers of the gauntlet to be so…"

"Filthy?" The Critic posited.

"Sleazy?" Linkara finished.

"Morally dubious?" Sage mused.

"All of the above, man!" Jaffers confirmed, fuming slightly. "It's not right! The gauntlet is only meant to be wielded by the pure of heart! The noble! I can't just let anybody have this thing; it's the most powerful weapon ever made! Sorry, guys, but this isn't gonna work out…"

"What?" The group shouted.

"No flipping way!" Linkara countered. "You can't arbitrarily cut us out of the quest! We've fought for hours in this game, we've gotten through your riddles, we've defeated your defenses and we've proven ourselves to be worthy! Who are you to decide who gets it, anyway? You can't just step in and say 'sorry, but you're too loose for ultimate power!'"

"I'm sorry, but as the keeper of the gauntlet and GM, it's my decision, man."

"Hell no! Linkara's right!" Sage stepped up beside his knightly friend, who looked much less knightly with a large scowl on his face. "You can't do that! I dressed up like a Jesus-lion for this! I deserve some compensation!"

"And I dressed up in tights for this! Actual fucking tights!" Mickey chimed in.

"So did I!" The Critic yelled. "Well not really... b-but I did wear a skirt!"

"I wore a dress like a prissy lady!" Lupa snarled.

"_I LOST MY FRIEEEENNNNDS!"_ Phelous wailed.

The adventurers began to slowly crowd in around Jaffers. Even though he didn't actually have the gauntlet with him, it would give them great pleasure to tie him to one of the stacks and drag the gauntlet's location out of him forcibly. That would teach the fat four-eyed loser to call them a bunch of immoral cutthroat porn freaks.

"Give it up, Jaffers!" The Critic ordered. "There's twelve of us and one of you!"

"Really?" Jaffers questioned. "I don't think you guys should try going off the rails at this point."

"And why not?" Tom asked, cracking his knuckles.

Jaffers didn't respond, he merely reached up to a higher shelf and brought down a lumpy looking case with a strange logo on its side. He unzipped it and withdrew a shiny, oiled metallic thing, one that looked very familiar. The others froze with fear as Jaffers withdrew a glowing blue cartridge from the case as well. Carefully, he loaded the cartridge into the gun. There was a vague look of determination in his glassy brown eyes as he fumbled the crackling magazine into the slot of the handle.

"Because I've got an enchanted Beretta," he replied, rounding the barrel on them.

Team One was halfway up the stairs before he started firing.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Another scene I enjoyed writing. Jaffers is the character everybody else gets to bounce their snark off of. I like to think he's a well-meaning guy, because he's protecting the gauntlet from evil, but he's a little too dense to follow through with a better plan.

-Xoanon


	21. Part 5, Chapter 20

**Chapter 20: The Hunt Goes Awry**

Jaffers stumbled out into the cave-like basement, firing randomly at the retreating adventurers sprinting back up the stairs to the safety of the outdoors. The bullets bounced off the walls, off the ceiling, off several of the knickknacks gathering dust on the shelves. Not a single one met their mark on the lumbering costumed freaks standing less than twenty feet in front of him. He silently cursed himself for having never completed the "Gun Handling and Safety Course" at the Peoria rec-center when he'd had the chance.

He ceased fire; it was useless to continue. They'd already gotten away from him. The immoral creatures he'd sought to curtail from his quest were now running back into the woods screaming like little girls. With that kind of determination they would almost certainly find the treasure. It was hopeless to fight them.

Suddenly, he spied a piece of computer paper lying underneath one of the shelves. He stooped to pick it up. It was a map, the same map they'd been using. Well, that was a happy accident, he thought. He could just stay here and guard it and that would be that. They could never find the treasure now!

No, he thought again, that wouldn't work. He couldn't just leave it out in the open on the workbench. Someone else would be sure to find it here, someone more dangerous than they. Better to take it with him than have it fall into the wrong hands again. _His_ hands…

Picking up the map, Jaffers turned and walked determinedly back out through the basement to the stairwell. He would have to fix this himself, he thought, and he would. He was going to solve this predicament once and for all, and bury the accursed gauntlet deep within the bowels of the nether woods. He paused momentarily to view his immobile friend sprawled out on the La-Z-Boy in front of the TV.

"Hey man," he said. "Thanks for letting me stay here for thirty years while I was trapped in a book."

"No problem," his friend replied, still not taking an eye off his episode of _COPS_. A white trash wife beater was lying prone on the ground, drunkenly shouting expletives at random as he was being cuffed by police.

* * *

Meanwhile, The Cloaks wandered menacingly through the depths of the woods, swords still drawn and thirsting for the blood of foes. Icily, they scanned the tree line and the path through it with their unblinking gazes. They were restless still. Their mission was not yet fully completed. They still had more idiots to kill…

"Hey guys! Wait up!"

…or convert, which in retrospect had been a rather bad idea. The Cloaks sighed as their newest member, a diminutive, dimwitted Cloak with mud splattered robe and flailing arms, crashed through the underbrush to meet up with them. He tripped twice, sending himself almost careening to the ground both times. He had been slowing down their pursuit of Team Two for at the past half hour now, and already in their caretaking of him the patience of the ever-stoic and ever-tranquil Cloaks was beginning to fray exponentially.

"You're a lot taller than me, so you can move a lot faster than I can!" the Film Cloak whined. He was still dragging along his wand from earlier, which had been transmogrified into a hellish looking ebony rod with red spikes all over it. The Cloaks had originally hoped to make him their dark magician. Right now, he was little more than a dark stagehand.

"We have to get rid of this guy," Cloak Three or Two hissed to Cloak One as Film Cloak flopped to the ground behind them, panting madly.

"He's seriously ruining our image!" Cloak Two or Three hissed also.

"You think I don't know that?" Cloak One replied huffily. "I mean geez—you'd think a British person would have some sense of poise, or even depth perception!"

"Let's ditch the limey freak!" Cloak Two cried.

"No," Cloak One dismissed. "We need him. Anyone converted to our side is a valuable asset. All he needs is the proper training…"

Suddenly, a loud crack sounded from behind them.

"AAAAUGH! I think I just sprained my ankle!" Film Cloak cried. "Can one of you carry me?"

The Cloaks sighed in unison. After relegating the carrying duty to Cloak Two through the ancient and arcane system of "rock, paper, scissors" they started back on the trail towards their enemies. Film Cloak, unsurprisingly, provided many more distractions along the way.

"It's such a wonderful day outside!" he gargled, gesturing grandly to the overcast sky above. "Why don't we all skip this guarding tosh and pick some flowers! I could make lovely garlands for you! And we could sing songs and dance and play the lute! Oh it'll be jolly fun, won't it! Why there's a field just right there—"

"Right! Group meeting!" Cloak Two unceremoniously dropped Film Cloak back on the ground. "Ah! My other ankle!" Film Cloak sobbed.

The Cloaks ignored him as they huddled up once more. In at least thirty seconds, an entire hour's worth of conversation was had in whispered muddled words, all impervious to human ears due to its impossible frequency. Film Cloak, having miraculously recovered from his ankle injuries, was now trying to bust into the huddle unsuccessfully.

"Hey! What are you guys talking about?" he asked indignantly. "I'm a Cloak too! I get to be part of the huddle! C'mon, guys! This isn't funny!"

"Look, a butterfly," Cloak One gestured.

_"Where?"_ Film Cloak leaped off in chase of the elusive Invisible Morpho, leaving the cloaks to discuss his fate at hyper-speed. In a few instances they finished. Cloak One turned to address the newest member.

"Excuse me! Cloak Number Four!" he called. "What is your favorite kind of tree?"

Film Cloak answered as commanded. "Oh my, there're so many different great trees right here in this forest! Only none of them are oaks, but that doesn't really matter; I mean look at the green on those maples over there! That's what a tree should look like, all picturesque and such, not dead and scraggly like those weeping willows! And the real amazing thing is that they're not even in season…"

Film Cloak failed to notice The Cloaks running as fast as possible in the opposite direction from him until they were a good half-mile away. Distraught, he turned and ran after them, stumbling as fast as he could without tripping on his robe and falling flat on his invisible face.

"Guys? Guys! Wait up!" he shouted. "I'm sorry! Whatever I did, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to be so annoying! I'll try to be a better Cloak! Just don't leave me here alone!"

The Cloaks ignored him and ran even faster. At the end of the trail stood a near-deserted parking lot, which they sprinted into without hesitation. Triple-parked inside it was the Grand Chariot of the Cloaks, a bat-winged iron and teakwood monstrosity teamed by ten ghostly horses. Cloak One threw himself into the basket and snapped the reins. The other two Cloaks hung onto the rear as the horses reared and began to gallop. Film Cloak reached the lot just as the Chariot began to pull out.

"Guys! Wait!" he sobbed. He ran after the Chariot, flinging himself at the rear axle in a vain attempt to grab hold of it. He failed and bit the dust. Unencumbered, The Chariot carried the relieved Cloaks from the lot and into the street, where it sped down the block like a sprinting demon from Hell, knocking cars left and right from its path.

"We had a chariot?" Film Cloak whined, head poking up from the crater it had left in the asphalt. _"WHY THE HELL WERE WE WALKING THE WHOLE TIME?"_

His head was suddenly lifted from the hole by Marzgurl, who had been hiding in the bushes nearby along with the rest of Team Two. Her dagger drawn, she leaned down to issue a completely unintelligible threat to her former comrade/annoyance.

_"Kiki no sotando chicira de, yame nasai!" _she shouted. Film Cloak screamed.

"Just get him out of the hole!" Luke stepped from the bushed to help Marzgurl subdue Film Cloak, who was now slapping at the humans in front of him as taught by his incomplete Cloak training. "It's okay, Film Brain, we're going to get you back to normal!"

Film Cloak kept flailing at the end of Marzgurl's grip. Any coherent words had been replaced by a sniveling crying noise mixed with a burbling from the depths of his black throat. None of what Luke said had registered inside his tiny brainwashed mind.

"It's no use, Potter. He's gone to the space between spaces," The Snob said disdainfully.

"That was a shitty line from a shitty movie," Spoony said.

"Shut up."

"He's probably been hypnotized," Luke deduced. "Does anyone have a charm or coin we can use to un-hypnotize him?"

"We could try mine," JewWario said coolly. "Here, wizard, grab my ball."

"I'm turning around, and that better be what I think it is, or you're in big trouble."

Luke turned to witness his teammate's ball being thrust into his face. His magic ball, that was. The magic ball he'd been cupping in his hands and doing tricks with the entire day. Ignoring the hailstorm of potential entendres, Luke took the ball from JewWario's hands and approached the ragdoll Cloak in front of them. Slowly, he began to move the ball back and forth. Film Cloak stopped resisting Marzgurl's grip and began to follow its path. As he did, Luke recited a simple mantra of his own devising:

"You're an internet reviewer, you're an internet reviewer…" he repeated it several times. The others joined with him, chanting in a show of solidarity and support for their fallen comrade, or, more likely, because they had nothing better to do than join a freaky exorcism that was being performed in their midst.

"You're an internet reviewer…" Luke kept twirling the magic ball in his fingers. Surprisingly enough, it actually was kind of fun to play with, even in spite of its cheap novelty. Film Cloak, now almost completely returned from the dark side, began to chant along with his former friends and allies.

"I'm an internet reviewer, I'm a brilliant internet reviewer…" he murmured dreamily. Luke sighed. That was Film Brain talking, all right.

Luke finished his impromptu routine. The others crowded in around Film Brain, hoping that whatever thing their boy wizard had done had managed to cure their other boy wizard. You could never have too many boy wizards around. That was mostly because they provided excellent cover during battle.

"Huh? Wha?" the former Cloak's head began to snap around wildly. "Where am I? Why is it so dark?"

"Don't worry, Film Brain," Luke beamed. "Everything's fine. Welcome back, guy."

"Luke?" Film Brain replied. "Issat you?"

"Alright! We got the little guy back!" Joe said triumphantly.

"What happened to me?" Film Brain asked, tearing the Cloak mask from his head. "I remember meeting up with The Cloaks, then one of them started to stare at me, and then I remembered I left the range on at home… then nothing."

"You were hypnotized by them, man," Todd replied. "Apparently they have power over the _phenomenally _weak-minded."

"And… Luke?" Film Brain noticed Luke was still holding the magic ball he'd used to un-hypnotize him. "You actually tried to help me?"

"Hey, a teammate's a teammate, no matter how big of a douche he is," Luke replied. "And besides, it's not like you wouldn't do the same for me, right?"

"…Well now I would've!" Film Brain beamed after some thought.

"_Pardon me, but what the hell are we still doing here?" _Pawfion cried suddenly. _"There's maaaaagic left to find!"_

"Paw is right!" Spoony intoned. "We must press onward! For we are close to the treasure we seek! And if we make it there before Team One, we can cut them out of the deal completely!"

"Let's go!" Film Brain and Luke cried together. The team began to trek from the lot and toward the street. They only had one place left to go before the gauntlet was theirs.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Decided to redo this one slightly. Sorry.

-Xoanon


	22. Part 5, Chapter 21

**Chapter 21: The Hunt Continues**

Back in the house on Chestnut Road, the man in the armchair was still watching television. The _COPS_ marathon was slowly fading from his damaged, half-functioning memory as an unwashed and low-quality episode of _All in the Family _trundled across the screen. He was still sitting there blissfully when a dark man dressed in dark clothes stepped in through the doorway. It was Malachite.

Malachite inspected the dank squalor of the basement lair. It had gotten slightly worse since Jaffers had returned, and left for parts unknown with the map and book. Bullet holes riddled several parts of the walls, which were now bleeding insulation. Several antique figurines had been shattered in their places on the shelves. A stray shot had nicked the once-pristine treadmill and bent one of its iron bars. He cared little for the damage, instead directing most of his ire towards the stray chip bags, the discarded soda cans, and the fat lump of a being sprawled on the seat of the armchair with eyes locked on the screen of the idiot box. To him, this sorry creature was anathema, nothing but a blight to be purged from the face of the earth.

He approached the sofa calmly. He set the head of his staff down on the remote, on the power button. The TV clicked off. It would not turn on again.

The man in the chair turned to face him. "You here for the quest thing too?" he asked, slightly miffed that his viewing pleasure had been interrupted, however briefly, by yet another costumed interloper. "It's over there, man." He pointed to the now-deserted shelving area. Malachite ignored this impolite referral.

"Where's Jaffers?" he responded, in little more than a husky whisper.

"Dunno," the chair man replied. "Oh, he got out of the book, by the way."

"So he's loose…"

"Guess so." The man got up from his chair. "I'm gonna go get some popcorn from upstairs and watch _Harry and the Hendersons_ on Starz. You want some?"

He moved to exit the basement. Malachite stepped in front of him and grabbed hold of his arm.

"You've made an altar to this god, haven't you?" he hissed, pointing to the television with his other hand. "This god of brightly colored nonsense, this machine that traps you in its cocoon woven by misleading pictures, by illusions, by lies? _Survivor_, _American Idol_, _Jersey Shore_… _Glee_… They're all nothing, nothing but coliseums for the damned, for the souls that could have been, for lives ruined and made into trivialities for others to watch. You'd rather watch them, wouldn't you? You'd rather watch greater failures make less of a difference in the world than you, rather than get off your fat ass and do something. That's how you live with yourself. Well, I presume that that makes you far worse than even the most soulless talking head I can imagine. That makes you…

"…_**a human being." **_This note came out of Malachite's mouth as a gutturally-toned dirge of hatred. Every syllable, every lilt, every modulation was coated in over two thousand years of pure malicious disgust and revulsion. It was a death knell, a sounding and icy condemnation for an entire group of beings the man no longer considered worthy of the so-called "treasures" they'd created for themselves, and a statement of his unwavering and impossibly deep devotion to the destruction and reconstruction of these evil creatures.

The chair man was unimpressed. In fact, he was rather cross that his offer of kernels had been tactlessly refused. "I just asked if you wanted popcorn or not. There's no need to make a big speech about it if you don't like it. You don't have to have any if you don't want to."

"What do you think of the 21st century?" Malachite asked him.

"The real estate company?" the man replied.

"The century."

"Oh, it sucks."

Malachite was taken aback by this. "Really?"

"Oh totally," the man said. "Wars, the tanking economy, the crappy environment, racists, religious fundies, stupid crap on TV, stupid crap on the internet, stupid crap in general. Yeah, so far this century's totally sucked."

"Well…" Malachite reneged slightly. "I suppose I… may have misjudged you."

"Maybe."

"I suppose that even a cesspit of civilizations can have its crown jewels, no matter how tarnished or flawed they may be." He inspected the man's attire and face as he said this. The both of them were stained with the dregs of many types of chips and soda pop.

"I guess so."

"I thank you, sir," Malachite addressed the man in his warmest possible tone, which was still rather cold. "You have given me new heart on this quest of mine. It does me well to see that another soul thinks of this century as an evil that must be corrected."

"Oh yeah," he agreed. "Except for the technology. That's pretty cool."

With one stroke of his arm, the man's heart was in Malachite's hand. It had been ripped from his chest instantly in mid-beat and was now spraying blood all over the floor of the basement cell. Malachite held it up in front of the man he had just ripped it out of. He was standing upright in front of his murderer. By some horrifying miracle he was still alive.

"Wow… that's my heart..." the man gasped. "Neat."

He collapsed to the floor and died. Malachite dropped the heart onto the La-Z-Boy and watched as it rolled down the backside of the chair and dropped into the seat with a wet plop. It would sit there, acting as the stinking regent of the kingdom that had once serviced the fat imbecile that was now decaying on the carpet, until someone came to cart it and the body away. A fine fate for an organ that could have possessed a mighty king, a godlike warrior-mage, or a—

There was an explosive pain in his chest. A thin roaring sound pounded against his eardrums. Malachite dropped to the floor, face contorted in agony. He clutched at his breast and gasped for much-needed air. The power—it had been the power he'd used to rip the heart from the swine. It was backfiring.

With great effort he stood up again, each moment in time a microscopic chamber of agony. The blood in his veins had turned to acid. He stumbled from the corpse to the bathroom lodged in the corner of the basement. He grasped the edges of the porcelain sink and, breathing heavily, fixed his gaze upon the reflection held within the mirror.

Malachite grimaced. In the old days, mirrors had been the portals to the soul, the physic that could fix the inner ailments of nearly any man or beast. Now, they were just the dead reflectors of the vain and narcissistic, the yes-men of an age built upon the visage of the empty-headed and superfluous. Nevertheless, they still served a purpose, although their function was severely limited. He removed his sunglasses to look at his eyes.

His eyes were missing. They had disappeared under a uniform sea of blackness that now stared out dumbly from his sockets. So it had finally happened, he thought. The disease had swallowed them, like it had swallowed so much of his being already. Such was the price for power inhuman and ancient as his.

The dull roar sounded again in his ears. It was getting louder. It had been getting louder for the past several months. It was his former master, no doubt, coming to collect his due from a grave long since removed from the face of the earth. He had to find the gauntlet. It contained a more than adequate supply of magic to sustain him until his work was completed. He would be able to find the ingredients for an elixir to cure him afterwards in an apothecary—an actual apothecary!—and then he would gather those he deemed worthy, not the feeble ones, the vapid materialists that had taken over, and he would rule again.

The pangs subsided, and eventually he was able to stand fully upright again without leaning on the sink. Malachite, still wary, breathed a heavy sigh. It had never been this bad before. Then again, he had been expending a lot lately...

"All right," he acquiesced. "Less magic." It would do him no good now to weaken himself before the final confrontation. He would have to save his strength. Morons or not, he wasn't about to risk everything he'd worked for on a stroke of arrogance.

He walked back out into the basement, grabbed his staff and hat from the floor and back up the stairs. The body was still lying dead on the floor.

"Don't get up," he commanded. The body was sure to obey a verbal command. Magical residue was a funny thing, and enough of it gathered together in one place—a chest cavity, for example—could create a walking corpse that would attract attention. The last thing he needed at this point was a corporeal invasion, even if it would make his job easier. Afterwards, however, there would be many opportunities for revenants, zombies, and even ghouls to terrorize the once-placid citizens of this city, and others as well all across the world. He had already decided to start with Pittsburgh sometime ago. They were the least prepared for it.

Malachite stepped out into the cold April day. Even with his ocular handicap, he could still sense the residue of the map lingering far off in the woods. Now that Jaffers had absconded, his only recourse was to find the map's bearers and follow them to the end of the game. They were out there, somewhere. He had no time to waste.

He began to walk down the street, leaving the now empty house behind him.

* * *

Team One, now back to trekking through the woods like lost pilgrims, were disheartened, downtrodden, dejected, and several other negative words beginning with "D". They had come so close, and now they had nothing and were standing directly on top of square one again ready and unable to process another ass-kicking. All in all, everything sucked.

The Critic was the most upset out of all of them. He had dropped the map back at the house, where crazy Chuck was probably waiting to shoot them. This was mostly his fault. Actually, no. This was entirely his fault. He'd gotten them all into this originally, and now he was the one who had doomed them to certain failure through his inability to remain cool under fire. He was no leader, or at least he was a really crappy one.

"So what do we do now?" Benzaie asked.

"I don't know," The Critic moaned. "I tried my phone but I can't reach anybody."

"Maybe an evil witch got in the way of the reception," Lupa joked, still trying to remain cheery despite the fact that she was very cold and hungry.

"Or perhaps 'twas a sorcerer's interference…" Linkara joined in, still cradling his sprained arm and bruised fingers in one hand.

"You know, Critic," Sage said, limping up behind The Critic and putting a hand on his shoulder. "In order to answer the phone, you must let the phone answer you."

"_Alright, knock it off!"_ The Critic angrily shrugged off Sage's arm and trudged out ahead of the group. "I've had it with this role-playing crap, so everybody just shut up and find us a way home!"

"But Critic, we still have to find the gauntlet!" Tom pleaded.

"Why? What's the point?" The Critic countered. "This whole character LARP-y thing didn't work, all right? It was a total waste of time! I don't care about the fucking gauntlet anymore! It's not worth the effort! Let's just walk back to my house in shame! You can beat me up when we get there and we'll forget this whole thing ever happened!"

"But what if Malachite finds it?" Benzaie said.

"From the sound of it, everyone'll be screwed if he gets a hold of it," The Chick added.

"Oh please," The Critic spat. "Jaffers is just a crazy idiot! We don't even know if this Malachite guy is still alive! How could he even live that long anyway?"

"I told you, it's magic!" Linkara repeated.

"Alright, fine! It's magic! I'm actually starting to believe it!" The Critic shouted angrily. "And y'know what? Just like Link, I'm starting to get sick to death of _hearing about it! _I'm sick of all these magical weirdoes using their spells and incantations and potions and crap on me! Why can't they just use a normal sword and _play fair for once? And I'm fucking sick of Zelda never being able to save herself, and making me the one who has to go in and save her all the time! And how come whenever I hit a chicken—just one chicken—a bazillion other chickens come flying at me? __**Huh? I mean, are they just hiding somewhere waiting for me to hit a chicken so they can come flying out at me do they have some secret kinda club or something somebody tell me cause I SURE DON'T FUCKING KNOW! GOD, IF I EVER FIND THE BASTARD WHO STARTED THAT CHAIN LETTER I'D GIVE HIM A—"**_

The Critic froze. The others, enraptured by his in-character rampage, waited for him to begin speaking again. He was on the verge of some great epiphany.

"It was Malachite," he said finally. "Malachite sent me that chain letter. He was waiting for somebody to go after it that could lead him to the gauntlet, someone clever enough…"

"And greedy…" Mickey added.

"And ingenious enough…"

"And greedy…" Mickey added again.

"And determined enough to follow through with it!"

"You really are greedy, you know that, right?" Mickey addressed.

"Even if that were true, how could he be following us?" Benzaie questioned.

"The book said something about a tracking spell," Lupa posited. "Could he be tracking the map?"

"We don't have the map anymore," The Critic replied. "We had a photocopy, but that's long gone by now. The ones that have the original map are…"

The Critic straightened up suddenly. "…Team Two! He's tracking them to the gauntlet!"

"And we don't have any way to contact them!" The Chick finished.

"Holy crap, we have to get to the gauntlet before they do!" Sage cried.

"You're right, Aslan!" The Critic shouted. "Rock-Phelous! Encourage us! Say something stoic!"

_"I wanna die!" _

"Perfect!" The Critic beamed. "Alright people, we have to find that thing and fast! This ain't no game anymore…"

He turned around, and flinched. There, in the path, was a knight dressed in imposing looking armor with a maroon cloak and leather faceguard. A large broadsword was at his side.

_"None shall pass…" _he began.

"OH KNOCK IT OFF ALREADY, JERKHOLE!" The Critic shouted. "We're in a hurry!"

_"You are searching for unspeakable power…" _he restarted.

"Yes, and it'd go a lot faster if you got out of the way!" Linkara grumbled.

_"But a great evil searches for it too…" _he continued.

"Which is sort of why we need to get going," Lupa finished.

_"He will never stop until he finds it…"_

"Oh the hell with courtesy!" The Critic drew his Master Sword.

_"Your destiny awaits you."_

The Critic marched briskly up to the masked figure. The figure stood his ground.

"Eat lead, you fairy dropping!" The Critic swung his sword, and the figure swung his. The foils clashed, and for a moment the two swordsmen were able to lock eyes. That was all that was needed.

"Wait…" the figure said. "Critic?"

"Suede?"

The figure removed his headgear to reveal a New Zealander sporting a cleft chin and feathered locks. For a moment, everyone was stunned. Then, everyone except Lupa began cheering. They rushed over to meet their long-lost comrade, the man who had left them for three years on a mission from God Himself.

"Suede!" The Critic cried. "Oh my God, man! It's so good to see you! How've you been doing?"

"Oh, nothing much," Suede replied, sheathing his sword. "Footwork, mookery, obstacle for a long-dormant LARP," he gestured to his attire. "The standard stuff, really."

"No kiddin'!" The Critic marveled. "And that thing with your voice? How'd you do that?"

"_It's just a persona I've been practicing on," _Suede croaked in response.

"Alright, let me get this straight," Lupa stepped up to Suede. "Who are you, exactly?"

"He's That Dude in the Suede! He used to do reviews for the site!" Linkara replied.

"Yeah, Lupa! Get with the program!" The Critic scolded.

"Obscurus Lupa, newcomer," she shook Suede's hand warmly.

"Pleased to meet you," he kissed her hand, sending her swooning off into fantasy.

"Alright, enough with pleasantries, time's a-wasting!" The Critic pushed Lupa away. "Suede, we're looking for Malachite's Hand. The fate of the world depends on us finding it! Can you lead us to it?"

"Course I do! I'm an obstacle, for God's sake!" Suede replied.

"Excellent!"

"But first, you must defeat me in mortal combat…" Suede began to redraw his sword, a steely look in his eyes. The Critic was taken aback.

"I… what?" he choked.

"Just touch my sword," Suede held his blade out. The Critic gingerly struck it once with his own.

"Ah, I am slain," Suede cried. "Let's get out of here, shall we?"

The others shrugged, and followed after their newfound old friend. Suddenly, the day seemed much brighter than it had been only moments earlier. Suede was back! And he knew the way to the gauntlet! Things were truly looking up for them now. There was no doubt about it.

"Suede! I missed you, man!" Benzaie cried, glomphing Suede suddenly in a bear hug as they walked.

"Benzaie?" Suede replied. "I thought you hated me."

"Benzaie does hate you, but Conan loves you!"

"Oh, fair enough."

"Hey Suede, what is the story behind this Malachite guy anyway?" The Critic asked.

"What? You guys haven't talked to Jaffer-cakes yet?

"He was too confusing."

"Right. Let me fill you in, then. A long time ago…"

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Had to do a little verbal judo in order to fit in Malachite's role in this chapter. In case anyone else finds it confusing: Jaffers is the GM of the game. He knows where the map is, so Malachite would stop there if it meant getting him to the gauntlet faster. Jaffers had already left, so now he's back to following Team Two.

-Xoanon


	23. Part 6, Chapter 22

**Part 6: Resolutions and Revelations**

**Chapter 22: The Joys of Forced Entry**

Team Two loped out from behind a lone pine tree and stared at their final destination. The house in front of them looked deserted—"looked deserted" being the key phrase, that didn't mean it actually was. Thanks to their little sojourn through Hell and back they had learned not to trust appearances as readily as they once would have. They approached cautiously, half-expecting the Cloaks or some other spook or boogeyman to leap out and start assailing them. Nothing happened.

"So," Todd said. "This seems to be the last location, according to the map. It's... surprisingly less daunting then I thought it would be."

"How do we get in?" JewWario asked.

"Don't worry, I'll handle this." Joe swaggered up to the door, the others following close behind him. He rang the bell once. The door was answered by a woman in purple with a tiny gold cross around her neck. She looked quizically at the costumed freaks assembled in front of her. Why she didn't immediately close the door was anyone's guess.

"Hello!" Joe cried, his rapier drawn and pointing directly into her face. "My name is Inigo Montoya! You killed my hamster!"

"Father…" Todd corrected.

_"That's not even a person!"_ The Snob shouted. It was then that the lady in purple shut the door.

"Stand aside, amateur." Grumbling, The Snob shuffled Joe to the back of the group and rang the bell again. Amazingly enough, the woman actually answered the door a second time.

"Hi there," The Snob said suavely, using his best "I'm totally a normal, well-adjusted person" face and voice. "Allow me to apologize for what just happened. My name is Byron Mountebank, and the people behind me are my troupe of fellow stage actors. We represent the Broadway Better Business Players for a Brighter Tomorrow. We're trying to start a petition in order to get second-rate shows off the marquees, and with your help, we can stop _Mamma Mia_ from ever being shown in theatres again."

The others, with absolutely no prompting, began to nod along with The Snob's ludicrous statement. The woman, mulling over her options and deciding that she had nothing better to do that afternoon than play host to a bunch of lunatics, replied:

"Oh thank goodness! I was wondering when someone was going to do something about that awful show. Come in!"

Smiling happily, The Snob stepped over the threshold. The others followed, drawing several illicit items from their pockets.

"It's a good thing you managed to explain yourself. For a moment there, I thought you were all insane," the woman continued.

"Oh no, ma'am..." The Snob replied.

"Is that duct tape?"

"Yes, it is. Sit down in that chair, please."

* * *

A short while later, the woman was restrained in the cushy armchair lying in the corner, having been covered in almost half the roll of tape by both The Snob and Angry Joe in tandem. The rest of the team, after pilfering various refreshments and other sundries from the fridge and cupboards, unrolled their elder map once more and began to decipher its final clue.

"Alright, now what's the riddle say?" Spoony asked.

_"'The ancient Voice that shall lead you to glory, lies underneath the lowest story," _Film Brain read from the map, squinting at the scrawled miniscule even with the aid of his plus-sized Potter glasses. "I think it wants us to dig through the floor."

"Bullshit," The Snob retaliated. "Let me read it."

"That's what it says! Honest!"

"Why would we have to dig through the floor?" JewWario wondered.

"I dunno. All it says is that '_Once you find the Voice, tell him your tale, and he shall lead you to the final vale.'_" Film Brain rolled up the map. "The vale must be where the gauntlet is located, I guess. It's the only riddle left."

"Well, no map's ever lied to me yet," Spoony shrugged. "Alright, people, commence digging in five… four… three…"

"We have a basement!" the woman cried, just as the team raised their "digging implements" high into the air in preparation for the first strike into the carpet. "It's to the left of the kitchen and down the stairs! Whatever you people are looking for, just take it and leave!"

"Geez," Todd grumbled. "No need to get snippy, lady."

"Come, my fellow adventurers! The Voice awaits!" Spoony led the charge to the foot of the stairs. The Snob took point and trundled down the staircase into a cavernous barroom. The others followed him. There was someone waiting there for them, a glass of red wine clutched in one hand, an old-fashioned pipe in the other. He wore a purple bathrobe with a red crop. He had glasses, a mustache, and was slightly balding. He wore a thin, creepy smile. For some reason, they had a strange feeling that they'd seen him before long ago… because they had, back in Molossia. It was That Guy with the Glasses, returning for yet another cameo for no apparent reason whatsoever.

"Hello. Didn't hear you come in," he said nonchalantly.

"What are you doing here?" Film Brain asked.

"That's a very good question," That Guy chuckled. "And the answer is you're not the only people with an internet show to shoot, y'know. I mean, thousands of people watch me respond to idiotic questions with increasingly disturbing and inane answers every month or so. How can I not be in here shooting all day? That's why I'm here, you little limey prig."

"Okay," Paw said. "But what are you doing in some woman's house?"

"I think the real question is, 'What is she doing in my house?'" That Guy gestured roughly upward with his pipe, spilling wine from his glass as he did so.

"Whatever. Just tell us, is there a…" The Snob grabbed the map from Film Brain and recited the name of their contact to That Guy."…Voice of the Ancient World anywhere down here?"

"Certainly. He's right back there."

That Guy pointed to a small door on the other side of the room. The team headed toward it. Beyond it there lay a small storage closet which held the radiator, water heater and a row of shelves holding varied boxes and tools. A small window cut into the top of the wall let in the outside light, a sickly pallor that cast itself over the concrete floor. On the floor was a small box, an ancient looking thing carved out of a single block of wood. Next to it was a note card: DOES NOT CONTAIN THE VOICE OF THE ANCIENT WORLD. The others stared at it.

"Something tells me it's in there," Spoony jabbed an accusing finger at the box.

"I'd guess so too," The Snob snarked. "That's the box of a carpenter."

"That line made no sense in the context you used it in," Film Brain called from the back.

"Shut it, magic boy." The Snob picked up the box gently, taking great care not to open the lid. He'd seen too many adventure movies to be careless with ancient magical boxes; usually the people who tried to open them ended up with melted faces, or worse. He would be sure to save the box opening for someone more expendable, like Spoony. The box was smooth, delicate, and very light, as if it held nothing but air within.

"So… what could live in a box that small?" Todd asked.

"Dunno. Maybe it's like a really small tape recorder, or something," The Snob replied.

"I wouldn't count on it," Luke said, reading the map for a solution. "It says here the Voice is older than time itself, and that it has all the answers we'll need."

"So it's basically an ancient tape recorder, got it," The Snob dismissed. "Now, who wants to open it?"

"Nose goes," Spoony called out. Immediately, everyone in the room except The Cinema Snob put their hands to their noses. The Snob, having both his hands grasping the box, was at a significant disadvantage in the game, and therefore he was left holding the "you're getting your face melted off and not us" bag.

"Alright, you cowards," The Snob grouched, "here goes nothing."

Carefully, he pried open the lid with cautious fingers. The box, despite its obvious age, didn't creak. It opened as smoothly and as flawlessly as it would have the day it was first carved. The others, defeating the purpose of having The Snob open the box, crowded around it in anticipation of the Angel of Death popping out and exploding them all for daring to gaze upon the forbidden wonders held within.

Suddenly, a tiny light shined from out of the box. The light grew brighter and brighter as The Snob pulled the lid back more and more. Finally, when the lid had been pulled back entirely, the ball of light shot out of the cushioned interior and floated slowly up to the ceiling. Shrieking with terror, Spoony dove for cover. The others refused to follow his lead, mostly because his head connected with the water softener on his descent to the floor, but also because the basement was too small for them all to do it at once. Instead, they chose to gaze awestruck at the miniature ball of luminescence that was now hovering in front of them. It was silent for a few moments, and then it spoke:

"Yeah, what?" it asked them. It was surprisingly bored-sounding for a sphere of pure energy and nigh infinite knowledge, almost as if it were unhappy with its lot in existence as the keeper of all the tales and truths of a world long since passed into the annals of history. Its nonchalance surprised Team Two, who had expected something a little more mature and wise-sounding in an ancient voice than some petulant orb with a Jersey-ish brogue.

"Yeah, what?" The Snob repeated incredulously.

"Is there an echo in here?" the spirit questioned. "What'chu guys want?"

"Are you… The Voice of the Ancient World?" Spoony replied, having recovered from his mild concussion and propping himself up on his staff for support.

"Yeah. What about it?" The Voice asked.

"You don't sound very ancient," Paw pointed out.

"And you sound like an ass, so what's it to ya?" the Voice shot back.

_"Nande shichu de nan daro!" _Marzgurl shouted.

"Well who asked you, weaboo?" The Voice spat, rounding on Marzgurl. "Your mother was a bitch and your father was a bull! I guess that makes you a bull-shitzu! Ha ha!"

_"Tashimo anjo haru…" _Marzgurl choked, lowering her head to hide her reserved Japanese tears.

"So what do you pricks want, anyway?" The Voice continued. "I'm a Voice. I've got shit to do and I don't got all day. So spill it or suck it, dipshits."

"Hey, you can't talk to us like that!" Joe cried. "We set you free!"

"Who says I can't?" The Voice replied. "'Oh wow, I'm not being very nice to a bunch of total assholes I just met! Maybe I should be careful, or these guys could really mess me up!' Yeah, right! Like that'll happen!"

"You're not very nice!" Joe retaliated.

"Hey, guess what?"

"What?"

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you!"

_"Fuck you!" _

"FUCK YOU!"

"Hey, c'mon guys!" Todd waved a hand, trying to restore peace. "We're getting carried away here! Look, Mr. Voice, we didn't come here to start anything with you…"

"Because you know you'd end up totally losing?" The Voice finished.

"…No. We just came here to find you so we could learn about the gauntlet, Malachite's Hand. We've been searching for it all day."

"All day?" The Voice whistled. "Wow, tough job."

"'Tis true!" Spoony cut in suddenly in his Gandalfian manner. "For many hours have we quested high and low across the land for the gauntlet, braving many perils and fighting many foes! And now our search has led us here to your miniscule realm of wonders!"

"Alright, sounds fair enough…" The Voice accepted.

"We've been chased by ghouls, forced to walk through patches of poison oak, chased by more ghouls, and been forced to listen to Paw ramble on about rage," JewWario added.

"Okay, I get it…" The Voice grumbled.

"And don't forget they almost captured me forever!" Film Brain chimed in.

"No one cares about that," The Snob shot back.

"What? Why not?"

"Because no one cares about you," Todd replied.

"Really?"

"Okay, seriously! Everybody shut up!" The Voice yelled.

"Nope," Pretty much everyone shook their heads in agreement.

"So no one cared I was a Cloak once?" Film Brain sniffled.

"I cared, Film Brain," Luke supported.

"You did?"

"Sure. Well, not at first…"

"_**Hey! Listen!" **_The Voice snarled. Immediately, everyone froze in a mixture of sheer terror and bloodthirsty annoyance. Its outburst was enough to silence the pointless conversation totally.

"Learned that one from my aunt," The Voice said with a note of satisfaction.

"Alright, back to business. Can you tell us about the Hand?" Todd asked once more.

"Hmm, Malachite's Hand…" The Voice recollected. "That particular object I know a great deal about."

"How much do you know?"

"Everything." The Voice drifted closer to Team Two. Its light began to grow steadily brighter as it spoke. "Hold on tight, kids. This ain't your granddad's expository vision."

The Voice's light grew brighter, and brighter, and brighter still. Its blinding rays soon blocked out everything in the room from wall to wall and up to the ceiling. The members of Team Two tried to shield their eyes from the incoming stabbing brightness, but it proved to be too much for them to take. Eventually, all that was left was a white intensity reminiscent of a movie screen in a dark room, and Team Two, bodies and minds held in the thrall of The Voice of the Ancient World, waited and watched as the being relayed to them a tale that had occurred long ago in a distant time and place…

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I have no idea why they didn't put in a _Legend of Zelda_ joke in the movie to begin with. You don't just pass that up...

-Xoanon


	24. Part 6, Chapter 23

**Chapter 23: The Tale of the Ancient World**

"..._Long ago, in the early years before the Common Era, in a time before the Age of Science and Technology, there lived two great masters: an alchemist from Kashmir and a sorcerer from Axum. The alchemist was named Aeon. The sorcerer was named Malachite. Both were the absolute masters of their craft, and in the entire world there were none who could oppose them in their work. At first, they were friends, brothers in arms working to protect the kingdom in whose service they were employed. The two learned much from each other. Aeon taught Malachite the ways of science;__ alchemy, chemistry, biology and metallurgy. In turn, Malachite taught Aeon the ways of magic, spells, sorcery and the secret rites of the occult. Under their alliance, the ancient world prospered and was kept in perfect balance…_

"…_But then one day, the great king of the land summoned Aeon to his throne in the city of Alarraaf. Aeon was the king's most trusted advisor, and his knowledge was considered paramount above even that of the wise ruler himself. The king told Aeon he wanted to devote all his resources to creating the greatest empire in the world, an empire more powerful than any other nation in history up to that point. He wanted to create a strong civilization where the people would never want for neither food nor shelter, one that would be prosperous and stable, and could withstand the march of time itself…_

"…_So, the king asked Aeon which force was more powerful, science or magic. That which Aeon chose would become the force behind which he would put his entire kingdom's will and manpower, in order to create his benevolent empire. If science were chosen, then Aeon would become the king's right hand, executing all of the major decisions and overseeing the kingdom's transition into the imperial era. But if magic were chosen, Malachite would be placed in charge instead, and he would make the decisions…_

"…_And although he was a good friend, Aeon knew Malachite had a dark, brooding heart, and that he was prone to fits of instability and rage stemming from his dabbling in the forbidden magical arts. Therefore, Aeon could not let him take control of the kingdom and its people. Aeon was no trickster; he had always been loyal to Malachite in the past. But his loyalty to his king was stronger, and he could not risk Malachite using his awesome power to destroy the land… _

"…_So Aeon replied to the king, 'In reason, science and technology our future lies.' The king acquiesced, and gave Aeon all he required in order to produce writings on his craft and spread them throughout the kingdom. Books, dissertations and treatises written by Aeon became the foundation for most of the world's scientific knowledge, inspiring many future thinkers such as Democritus, Geber, Ptolemy, Galileo, Copernicus, Sir Isaac Newton, and many more…_

"…_Once word reached Malachite of his friend's ascension, he felt betrayed, and vowed to undo the catastrophic wrong that had been laid against him. Malachite believed that magic was the greatest force on earth, and that science, even in spite of Aeon's many advancements, was a mere child's toy reserved only for those who had no business in working with the eternal art. Soon after his meeting with the king, Malachite approached Aeon and challenged him to a battle that would forever decide the fate of the entire world. A battle to the death…_

"…_Using all he had learned, and all the arcane and terrible resources he had at his disposal, Malachite worked tirelessly to create a force more powerful than Aeon's science could ever hope to be. When his labor was complete, he had created a magic gemstone that would grant him unlimited power: a malachite. He attached this stone to an iron gauntlet which he wore, thus creating Malachite's Hand. With the Hand, Malachite could channel all his magical ability into a single point, allowing him to accomplish impossible feats such as levitation, teleportation, flight, shape-shifting, and the creation of constructs of pure magical energy… _

"…_But Aeon, through the science of alchemy, managed to craft a ring made from purest lodestone that was powered by the magnetic field of the Earth itself. With it, he could easily reflect any deadly force back at its originator, even Malachite's magic. Armed with his ring, he accepted Malachite's challenge with a heavy heart. He did not want to fight his former friend and ally, but he would do so in order to keep his kingdom and his people safe from harm…_

"…_The two warriors met on a desolate mountain outside a walled city. With no onlookers or witnesses, the two had no reason to hold back from one another, and therefore they fought with every ounce of strength they had. And so the battle began. Science versus magic, light versus dark. It lasted for hours on end, quickly becoming violent, brutal, and underhanded. Malachite sought total victory, meaning the death of his opponent Aeon. Aeon only wanted his friend Malachite to see reason and cease his avowed destruction of all they had built together through both magic and science. Neither would budge…_

"…_Finally, after many blows had been exchanged, Malachite expended all his remaining power in a single burst of magical energy. The blast shattered the mountaintop entirely, reducing it to a meager crater and scattering dirt and dust in a cloud that stretched for miles in every direction, and the very world shook from the reverberations of the power that had slammed into its crust. Unfortunately, this last ditch effort was not enough to destroy Aeon, and it was he who emerged triumphant after Malachite collapsed from exhaustion. He had won, but his victory came at a steep price…_

"…_Because of their friendship, Aeon spared Malachite's life. It was his hope that his friend could be reformed, and that his madness could be cured by some means known to scientific minds. However, he did remove the gauntlet from Malachite's wrist so that it could not be used by him again, and buried it somewhere it would never be found, in the deepest depths of the earth. Aeon knew that Malachite would never practice magic again without the gauntlet, for every time a sorcerer uses complex magic he drains part of his life force. Only through the power of the gauntlet could Malachite use magic eternally with no repercussions… _

"…_The king, enraged by Malachite's behavior, had Malachite arrested. He was imprisoned in the Impenetrable Tower of Tripoli by royal decree, and would have been forced to live out the remainder of his life there in shame. But Malachite escaped the Tower through unknown means and disappeared. All the knowledge of magic and sorcery he had accrued disappeared with him, including all the writings penned under his name. A few fragments survived to become the basis of the ancient legends, such as Beowulf and the riddle of the Sphinx… _

"…_And so, Malachite walked the earth as a hermit, eschewing his advanced magical spells for more practical and discreet charms and incantations. Doing so allowed him to live longer—much longer than any other human being in history, longer than even his friend Aeon. The irony of this was that Malachite lived to see Aeon's works grow to fruition, watching the old world of magic fade away into obscurity and the world of science and technology grow to consume the entire Earth…_

"…_Unfortunately, Aeon's predictions had failed to take into account the repercussions of science and technology on the people. Malachite noticed that the arts Aeon so espoused only managed to benefit a select few in the total population, leaving the rest as little more than chattel used to run the machines and computers that kept the world in their sway. He also noticed that access to these wonders often led people to folly, turning them into ignorant, listless, petulant and feeble-minded humanoids. Finally, Malachite noticed the appetite for destruction that many scientists possessed, and that angered him most of all. The same intellectual appetite that had fed Aeon's searches for knowledge and the truth led many scientists to create engines for death and devastation…_

"…_It was these injustices that led Malachite to vow to find his gauntlet again, so that he could destroy the pitiful, indolent world of science Aeon's descendants had crafted from his scientific research. He looked all across the world, in many nations and amongst many peoples. He looked a long time. Still, he never found the hiding place Aeon had chosen. As the years ticked on, his anger grew, as did the advancements and the prowess of his scientific opponents. It was this anger that served as the fuel that would feed him on his quest for revenge against the world that science and technology had created." _

* * *

**Author's Notes: **This is probably going to be the shortest chapter, because it was a big stretch to try and milk anything more out of the story.

Because the latest anniversary is coming out next month, I've decided to step up the number of postings I plan to do each week. Look for two more chapters on Sunday.

-Xoanon


	25. Part 6, Chapter 24

**Chapter 24: The Paths Converge**

The Voice's tale ended, and Team Two was released from its spellbinding vision and deposited back into the dank basement they had been standing in before. They looked around their squalid prison, blinking profusely and shaking their heads. They had every right to be disoriented; they had just witnessed a form of communication that hadn't been used in centuries, one with a lineage stretching back to the dawn of time. It had conveyed many of the greatest ideas ever thought by any sentient being.

"Dude… did we just get high?" Paw asked.

"Kinda," The Voice replied.

"Alright, so that was... weird," The Snob grimaced, shaking his head. "So how can this Malachite guy live so long, anyway? Don't people have to die eventually?"

"One of the first spells Malachite casted with the gauntlet was a spell of eternal youth. He can live as long as he desires as long as he lays off the heavier stuff," The Voice answered.

"What happened to Aeon and his creations?" Film Brain questioned.

"Weren't you paying attention? Aeon croaked," The Voice grumbled, annoyed. "He may have been a brilliant scientist, but even he couldn't cheat Death. His creations? Passed down through time, setting off a chain of inventions that evolved into the technological world we see today."

"And the ring?"

"It was lost in the battle with Malachite. Even I don't know where it is."

"So can you tell us where the gauntlet is?" Paw asked hopefully.

"Oh fuck no, I'm not telling you guys that!" The Voice said.

"Well why not?" Film Brain pestered.

"Because I know you mortals," The Voice countered. "If you find it, chances are you'll do God-knows-what with it. The Hand isn't something to be taken lightly."

"We won't take it lightly, we swear," JewWario cut in. "After hearing what you said about Malachite, I think it's best that we try and keep the gauntlet as safe as possible."

"Absolutely not. You'll fuck it up somehow."

"Listen here, you little floating sound bite—" Joe began.

"My mother was a sound bite!" The Voice shouted indignantly.

"Whatever! You can't just keep the gauntlet hidden somewhere and hope it'll stay safe. If this Malachite guy is still around and he's still looking for it after all this time, then he's going to find it someday. He could be on his way to it right now! We need to take it so we can hide it somewhere he won't think to look for it; we could pass it around between ourselves every couple of years. We promise not to use it, we swear!"

"Hmm…" The Voice thought for a moment. "That is a compelling argument…"

"Really?"

"Nope. I'm outta here. See ya, chumps."

The Voice shot out the door, through the basement and up the stairs. That Guy waved as it passed by, not knowing whether what he had just seen was real or a methadone-induced hallucination. Team Two clamored back out into the room, but it was too late. The Voice was gone, along with their last possible route to the gauntlet.

"Well that's just great!" Spoony lamented, tearing off his beard. "The floating speck of crap is gone, and we have no path to the apparently insanely powerful magic gauntlet that a crazy wizard is looking for in order to destroy the whole world. Now what the hell do we do?"

"Who put that note on the box anyway?" Film Brain wondered.

"I did," That Guy laughed suddenly.

_"Anata wa?"_ Marzgurl questioned.

"_Hai_. I put it there so it wouldn't be too obvious where it was. Mr. Voice enjoys his privacy very much," That Guy replied.

"Well... is there anything else you wouldn't want to be too obvious?" Film Brain asked hopefully.

"Absolutely: this pretty sheet of paper that tells exactly where the gauntlet is located." That Guy held up a pretty sheet of paper proudly, grin still plastered to his face.

"May we... see it?" Spoony requested.

"Sure. Have a looksie." That Guy handed Film Brain the paper. Team Two crowded around him for a closer look. It _was_ a pretty piece of paper. A map, to be precise. The map led from the house they were in currently back down the street to Naperville's main avenue. From there, it led back across the woods to the little grass commons in the suburbs south of the park. It was almost as if it were leading them in a complete circle, back to…

Team Two collectively squinted at the final location on the map. No, they thought. No fucking way. It couldn't be there. It just couldn't be there. All of that work they'd done couldn't have been for nothing. All that tireless mucking about in the woods, being shot at by demonic bathrobe-wearing freaks, getting their nards frozen off—all of that couldn't have been wasted time. But it was. The map was leading them directly back to…

"Oh, you've…" Film Brain groaned.

* * *

Team One and That Dude in the Suede stood before the final resting place of Malachite's Hand. Suede looked completely serene, as if he'd been to the state of Nirvana and, finding it incredibly boring, decided come back to Earth to mull around for a while before teaching others the secret to total enlightenment. The others, in contrast, looked about ready to blow rage chunks all over the ground. The Critic was especially livid, almost as livid as Mickey had looked when The Critic had informed Ma-Ti of his nonexistent porn problems.

"…got to be…" The Chick breathed.

* * *

Team Two continued to stare at the accursed map. They were pissed off now, as pissed off as Team One was at that very moment. In fact, if their rage had been able to shatter the boundaries of space-time and cross the distant mile or so between them and Team One, then a horrifying bridge made out of pure vitriol and disgust would have been erected right then and there, an everlasting monument to their hatred of the idiotic bastard who designed the fucking stupid game and its fucking stupid quest in the first place.

"…fucking…" Todd fumed.

* * *

"...KIDDING ME!" The Critic shouted. "IT'S RIGHT BACK WHERE WE STARTED?"

Team One had been staring aghast at the piddling drainage field where they had started their quest for the gauntlet less than four hours ago for more than ten minutes, minds still aching in an attempt at comprehending such a marvelously stupid decision by the recently-revived GM of the game. It was impossible to figure out the reasoning behind it. The gauntlet had been here all this time, far from any possible defenses, disconnected from the entire storyline and scenario of the game itself, in a place where any old person could just waltz in off the street and pluck it from the game entirely without doing a lick of work to achieve it. If Jaffers had been present at the scene, it was a certainty that he would have been punched in the face many times.

"Erm… yes," Suede replied carefully, noticing the lividness crackling in his friend's face. "The whole thing was Jaffers' idea, actually. It was meant to be representative of one of the key tenants of the game. For you see 'only the true of heart may find the way to—'"

"Oh shut up!" The Critic yelled. "Quest's over! Enjoy your victory, dumbasses!"

Team One cheered halfheartedly. The quest was finally over. Huzzah. Linkara and Mickey both collapsed from exhaustion and sprawled out on the ground. Phelous burst into tears. The rest huddled together shivering in the cold as The Critic stomped toward the drainage pipe looking for the prize that had eluded them for so long.

* * *

"I hate today…" The Snob groaned, bitching his way back up the stairs.

"I need a stiff drink," Todd spat angrily, clomping up after him. The rest of Team Two followed them in silence. Except for Spoony, who had been rejuvenated by their final, incredibly painful discovery about the location of Malachite's Hand.

"Onward, my friends, through the peaks and valleys of—"

"SHUT UP!" the rest of Team Two shouted. Spoony complied, whimpering slightly as he trundled back up the steps. The team filed out into the kitchen to plan their next move.

"We should probably hurry, guys," Luke announced, stepping out of the basement last. "We have to get to the gauntlet before Malachite figures out any of this."

"Well said. Spoony, get our stuff—"

"We don't have any stuff, Brad."

"Whatever! Let's just go!" Team Two turned to leave.

"Uh, guys? Aren't we forgetting something?" Paw called from the rear. The others turned to witness him trying to release the now very unhappy looking woman from her silvery prison in the armchair. The others, suddenly regaining their lost consciences, turned back to help him. In a minute she was untied. Team Two filed nervously out the door, leaving The Snob to deal with the last-minute details of their troupe's petition.

"…and in conclusion to our very strongly-worded apology, we would appreciate it if you wouldn't hold us liable for any damages or injuries, property-wise or psychological… yeah, okay. This has all just been a bad dream. Goodbye."

The Snob motioned for Joe to crack the woman on the head with the butt of his MP-5. Joe complied, and the woman crumpled to the floor.

"Great. I guess we can add assault and battery to the rap sheet," Joe grimaced. "Any more crimes we'd like to commit today?"

"Just one: murdering The Critic for getting us caught up in this," The Snob replied darkly. "Let's roll."

With that, the two sped out the door, slamming it shut behind them. The rest of Team Two was already speeding back to the field. This was the end of it, they thought lightly. The quest was over. They had been beaten up, beated down, scared half to death, and had accomplished nothing other than the completion of a tremendous waste of time and energy. All in all, it was a day's work well done for the Awesome-teers.

* * *

Meanwhile, Team One, after having regained their shattered composure, began the lesser search for the gauntlet within the constraints of the field.

"So where is the frigging thing, anyway?" Linkara asked.

"Over there, in the Storm Drain of Secrets," Suede intoned, gesticulating toward a metal grate covering a large concrete pipe that protruded out into the grass from the hillside. The others were unmoved by his dramatic performance.

"Well don't look at me. Even I can't make this material sound good," he said huffily.

The Critic crept to the pipe and peered inside it. He could see nothing other than blackness. It was the perfect hiding place for one final ghoul or nasty beast, he thought; there was no way Jaffers would be stupid enough to leave his treasure totally unguarded. He turned back to the others.

"Alright, there's probably something creepy and/or terrifying in there. Be on your guard… and would somebody cheer up Phelous for God's sake!"

"_BIIIIIG STRONG HAAAAAAANDS!" _Phelous wailed, still sobbing at the fact that he'd lost his little plastic friends for nothing. The others ignored them as best they could.

The Critic, gathering up his remaining dignity, traipsed down into the tiny depression wherein the Storm Drain of Secrets lay. He bent to reach into the pipe and, with some prompting from Lupa, did a graceful sweep of his arm in order to prevent the wind from blowing his man-skirt up and revealing to the world that which had to be kept hidden at all costs. On hands and knees, he carefully reached into the concrete safe, hoping he would pull out something far greater than a handful of decaying muck or a dead raccoon.

"I think I feel something…" The Critic reached in further. "It's duct taped to the pipe. I've almost got it…" He strained. There was a loud tearing noise.

"Was that the tape?" Linkara asked eagerly.

"No... It was my briefs," The Critic shot back, embarrassed. The others grimaced in disgust. A few more tugs, and The Critic announced:

"I've got it!" With a mighty lunge, he tore free from the pipe a thin, towel-looking bag. In triumph, he raised the package above his head, almost hearing a thin trill of notes sounding something like "do-do-do-dooooo". The others applauded, until they noticed a rather crazy looking person dressed in full knightly armor sneaking up behind The Critic with an actual broadsword…

"Uh, Critic…" Suede alerted.

"Not now, Suede. Busy staring at prize," The Critic dismissed. He wanted to savor the moment. This was it. This was the crowning moment of his life. The prize he had sought all this time through all the trials, tribulations and tears, the meal ticket he'd been coveting ever since Criticland, ever since the therapy sessions, ever since Molossia, was finally his. He was its master now, its sole owner. Everything the gauntlet commanded was his; its secrets, its power, and its magic. Everything…

He was still dreaming about what he could do with it when the rogue knight swung the sword directly at his head.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **In preparation for Year Four, I've gone back to look at _Kickassia. _It still holds up, but it definitely needs some rewriting and reformatting in some places. Nothing huge, though, just little touch-ups here and there. I suppose I should start some editing after I'm finished with _Suburban Knights, _but Year Four is probably going to take up most of my time for the rest of... a while.

-Xoanon


	26. Part 6, Chapter 25

**Chapter 25: The Revenge of Razzmatazz**

The rogue knight swung violently at The Critic. The Critic, turning at the last possible instant, shrieked in terror as the sword missed his head by mere inches. The momentum of the dull, slightly rusted blade carried the knight around in a complete pirouette. The Critic stepped back as his opponent stumbled to the ground. He was apparently a bit out of practice. Thirty years out of practice, to be exact.

"Aw, man!" came a nasally voice from within the iron visor covering the knight's face. "I missed!"

The Critic recognized the voice instantly. He stepped forward to pull the visor off the half-witted warrior's face. As soon as he did so, from out of the helmet there stared the vacant, bulging eyes of Chuck Jaffers.

"You!" The Critic exclaimed.

"Oh! Hey, it's you guys! The internet reviewers!" Jaffers exclaimed back, seemingly unaware that he had just been attacking a member of the only group of people for miles around who had a map to the gauntlet he protected or were even aware of its existence. "No need to worry, man. I've been at the library all day finding out what the internet is. You guys are awesome!"

"Really?" The Critic asked. "Did you see the porn?"

"Part of it. They kicked me out before I got to the really heavy stuff."

"That's great, really great. Are we cool now?"

"Naw, I still gotta kill ya. Protector of the gauntlet and all that."

"Of course." The Critic watched as Jaffers reeled back his sword for another attempt at decapitating his erstwhile foe. He was just about to casually step out of the way when Phelous leapt in and blocked the swing of the sword at the hilt with his meaty rock-arm. The Critic, Team One, Suede and Jaffers all stared at the sudden and powerful recovery of this sensitive giant with a body made of stone and a heart made of more stone.

"Hands off my friends," Phelous growled.

"Phelous, you're back!" Benzaie exclaimed.

"Amazing," Linkara mused. "I guess he finally realized that true friends are ones made of flesh and blood, and not plastic material possessions."

"Oh come on, you guys! It was just a character!" Phelous grumbled, taking his eyes off the quivering form of Jaffers hiding just beyond his now-useless foil. "If you ask me, you're all taking this whole thing way too seriously!"

"Precisely my point," The Critic added. "Will you just knock him out for me, please?"

Phelous complied, putting Jaffers to sleep with a single blow to the jaw.

"Thank you."

The Critic and the rest of Team One ignored Jaffers moans of pain and crowded around the Towel of Destiny that had been pulled from the Storm Drain of Secrets. The Critic carefully tore away the duct tape surrounding the bundle, revealing parts of the gauntlet as he did so. There were straps of grey and black, as well as a thin greenish glow that pulsed and emanated from within the fabric…

"Hey, man, weren't you one of my obstacles?" Jaffers asked Suede. Phelous had lifted him from the ground and pinned both his arms behind his back.

"Ah, sort of," Suede replied sheepishly. "The other guy got tired of waiting around and took a desk job in Boise. I'm just a temp."

"Oh. Well thanks for betraying me, ya rotten Kiwi."

"Suck a popsicle."

The Critic tore the last of the duct tape away from the towel. He rolled it open to reveal the immortal, priceless gauntlet, the legendary Malachite's Hand. The whole of Team One gazed upon it in awe, and confusion. But mostly confusion. It was the ugliest thing they had ever seen. Malachite may have been a powerful sorcerer, but he didn't seem to have much taste when it came to aesthetics, or choosing a gauntlet that didn't want to make the user throw up when looking at it.

"This is the gauntlet?" The Critic said quizzically.

"Not the original. It was too old and damaged when I found it," Jaffers replied. "The jewel is the important thing anyway, so I decided to put it on a far more fitting weapon. No man on Earth has seen anything like it: forged in the fires of a secret Japanese laboratory, and smuggled out of the country by American industrialist spies, the latest and greatest in space-age technology adapted to the most powerful force in the world!"

"Really? A Power Glove counts as space-age technology?" The Critic quipped. He held the thing up by its sagging black straps. The jewel of Malachite had been sloppily glued to the front panel of the glove ahead of a control console crammed with buttons and a D-pad. Superfluous-looking hoses connected the two panels together, either to provide a "science-y" decorative flair or to distract from the fact that the damn thing probably didn't work. Nevertheless, it did look somewhat dashing, if only for the cheese appeal of being an almost thirty-year-old novelty controller from one of the most successful video game systems of all time.

"I'm not gonna lie. That looks frigging awesome," Eight Bit Mickey stated.

"I'm Willow," Handsome Tom agreed.

"Yes. Yes you are."

"Alright, regardless of kitsch, we have to find another place to hide this thing." The Critic gestured to the others to start moving toward his house. From there, they would—

"NOOOOOO!" Jaffers whined. "The Storm Drain of Secrets was the perfect hiding spot! You can't just take the gauntlet and run off with it!"

"Oh get a haircut, hippie!" The Critic shot back.

"You can't take my gauntlet from me! I won't let you!"

"Game's over, Jaffers. You lost," Linkara sighed. "We won the gauntlet fair and square. So why don't you go just back to your game store and let the grown-ups handle things, hmm?"

"I'll show you!" Jaffers shouted, struggling against Phelous's grip. _"I'll show you to death!" _

With a mighty flopping motion Jaffers tore himself free of his assailant. He sprinted over to The Critic and began to wrestle the gauntlet from his fingers. The Critic held on tight, and a tug-of-war ensued. With little effort, The Critic was able to wrest control from Jaffers and send him tumbling backwards into the grass.

"Back off, man!" he snarled. "It's my gauntlet! You hear me? Mine! Don't make me use this on—shit! The stone!"

The stone was gone. It had dropped off the glove in mid-tussle. Without the precious jewel, the glove was just a powerless hunk of plastic. The Critic instantly dropped to the grass and began tearing handfuls of it free from the dirt it was rooted in.

"Look for the stone, everybody!" he cried. The others complied, their eyes locked tightly on the ground like The Critic's. Each one of them was desperately preoccupied with many thoughts of the gauntlet's power, though most of them were of the apocalypse it could potentially rain down upon them should it fall into the wrong hands. The Critic searched the most frantically, head bowed deeply to the grass. It couldn't end like this, he thought wildly. He'd been so close, so close to ultimate power! To glory! He couldn't let it slip away now!

"Aw, the hell with it man!" Jaffers accused, attempting to leap up from the lawn and failing to do so. "You guys are definitely not worthy enough to hide the gauntlet!"

"Oh will you either piss off or help us look?" The Critic spat.

"I'm warning you! You'd better back off, or I'll retake the gauntlet by force!" Jaffers ordered.

"Yeah? You and what army?"

"That army!" Jaffers pointed. The Critic and Team One looked across the avenue. The obstacles still loyal to Jaffers and his poorly plotted game had suddenly reappeared by the side of the road opposite the field. The Voice of the Ancient World, The Good Witch of the Woods, The Cloaks, and Cat were all present and accounted for, standing in a single battle line. They all looked very murderous, with the exception of Cat, who had his nose bandaged up and looked more like he was in a great deal of pain than ready to cause it. Other than that, the combined presence of all their former adversaries and three new ones was more than enough to strike fear into the hearts of Team One.

"OH YEAH! COME GET SOME, PUSSIES!" The Voice shouted.

"You'll be sorry you doubted us, kiddos!" the Witch shrieked. "You'll be sorry!"

"I don't believe we've met before, but don't worry. You'll be dead before we can introduce ourselves properly," Cloak One called, unsheathing his sword.

"Take a good look, you jerks!" Jaffers exclaimed happily, still pointing at his army. "My guys are going to rip you a new one! Aw man, this is gonna be so awesome!"

He turned to face his reinforcements: "Charge, my minions!"

"Stop calling us that!" Cloak One shouted. The horde of demons charged forth nonetheless. They managed to make it a few inches from the sidewalk before being forced back by a passing car. They tried again, only to meet up with the same near-fatal fate. They tried several more times, each time severely underestimating the distance between their side of the road and the field where their quarry lay, as well as the time they would need to properly cross the road in front of any moving vehicles that could potentially injure them.

"Alright! First they'll wait for traffic and then they'll rip you a new one!" Jaffers fell back and waited for his goons to arrive. The Critic, seeing that he had only a brief reprieve before his rather goofy and poorly-executed death, turned to his followers as well:

"Team One, to your battle stations!" he shouted. The others, with the poise and discipline of a well-trained military regiment, formed up into a neat battle line that stretched across the thin grassland. The Critic took up his rightful place at the forefront, the commander that would lead the charge directly into the meat grinder of sorcery that lay before them. Their foes were still waylaid, gazing up and down the street for cars.

He decided that now was the time for one final rousting speech to his comrades. They had followed him this far—without undue complaint, without treachery or betrayal—through mud and cold and wind and many other tortures for a prize that meant only the very end of the world they inhabited. A final passionate speech was the least he could give to them for their service and loyalty, and they deserved that much from him if this were truly to be the end. He drew his Master Sword for the last time, and turned to face them.

"Critics! Reviewers! My brothers and sisters in the field of internet fuckery!" he said. "Lend me your ears! We stand here, on the field of valor and glory, against a mighty tide of demonic assholes that wish to stomp our faces in, crush our bones to dust, and feed on our shrieking souls! But I can surely tell you, that though I am afraid—though we are all truly, pants-shittingly afraid—we shall not avail them and their despot, and we shall fight for what is rightfully ours! Today, we shall fight for Malachite's Hand!"

The others roared their approval.

"I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the very heart of me, were I not fighting for something truly important! Unlike… all the other times we've done this before, this time we're really fighting for something! We are fighting for the very sake of the technological world that lies all around us! A day may come when a dark and powerful mage throws us back into the Stone Age, a day may come when the cult of an unwitting hack actually allows him to do it, and a day may come when the courage of all critics fails, and each and every one of us breaks our oath of snark and irony! _But it is not this day!_"

The others cheered again. They were ready now, ready to fight for their world, for the control of the gauntlet, for the freedom and prosperity of the modern world they lived in. One by one, their weapons were drawn, bared and held at the ready. Each one of them had the steely look of a true hero in their eyes, but it was mostly a metaphorical look. Most were still a bit dizzy from hunger and exhaustion, and possessed more vacant, glazed-over stares than any look of valorous determination. But all in all, they were ready to face their destinies on the field of battle.

"Sure, we may have abused science in the past!" The Critic screamed. "And I mean _really _abused it! Come on, people; the H-Bomb? Mustard gas? Sugar substitutes? What the hell were we thinking?"

"You're going off track a bit, Critic," Suede cautioned.

"Oh, right. Sorry…" The Critic regained his composure. "But all that stuff means is that we just have a lot more to _learn _from it! And if we lose it, then it's all over for people like us! There will be no jobs for pasty, nerdy, Caucasian twenty to thirty-year-olds in a fairyland of mysticism and wonder! Is that what we must resign ourselves to? _Is that our destiny?_"

"NO!" there came a resounding chorus.

"Good! So that is why we are here, and that is why we must fight! If we are victorious, then we shall be free to bitch and complain another day! But if we are not, then we will lose everything we hold dear! There will be no more online shows or pointless internet videos when the Age of Technology comes crashing down! There will be no more cars or electricity or computers when the darkness swallows us whole! But it is not this day! For this day, _we fight!_"

"He's really getting into this," Linkara whispered proudly to Mickey.

"I know." Mickey had tears in his eyes. He had never heard a speech so rousting.

"So, by all the cool gizmos, trappings and technological toys that you hold dear on God's green Earth, I ask you: STAND! REVIWERS! OF THE INTERNET!"

With that, The Critic thrust his Master Sword high into the air. The sticky coating on it gleamed brightly in the sun, making the sword seem as if it were actual steel. It was the proudest feeling The Critic had ever had in his life. He watched as the others punctured the sky with their weapons as well, or held up their large fists in a put-up-dukes pose. Lupa, who had no weapon to loft or swollen fists to display, merely ran around cloying in the rear of the group's formation. It was good enough, The Critic thought. Good enough.

He turned to face the enemy. They looked ready as well. Cat was hissing and wobbling back and forth on his feet. The Witch looked ready to unleash another storm. Cloak One was limbering up for a hack-and-slash melee with his new opponents. They were powerful, but they lacked the innate quality Team One possessed in spades that made up for almost everything, the most powerful force in the universe: they lacked the power of heart.

The Critic walked out in front of his army. "Shut up!" he called to Lupa and her girlish giggling. Lupa fell silent. The demons, carefully timing their charge to coincide with the appearance of a grey Escalade, finally began their onslaught. They sprinted as fast as lightning across the avenue toward the waiting Awesome-teers. Linkara wiped sweat from his forehead, Tom and Mickey gave each other one last hug, Suede rocked spritely on the balls of his feet, and Sage held his "paws" out with nails ready to tear into enemy flesh.

The obstacles surged closer. Team One braced for impact. Jaffers, now certain of his victory, charged into the fray with sword drawn, screaming out a Tarzan-like battle cry of "UH-A-UH-A-UH-A-UH-A-UH!" The Critic, with no other words left to give, hefted his sword into position and screamed out his own final phrase:

"HWAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AH!"

And so the final confrontation began.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Awesome.

-Xoanon


	27. Part 6, Chapter 26

**Chapter 26: The Final Battle**

Team One met the line of obstacles head on, clashing mightily with them in the direct center of the drainage field. Many swords clanged together, many heads butted, many legs were kicked and many groins were kneed. Jaffers drunkenly weaved in and out of the conflict, knocking into his own Cloaks several times. The Voice flew above the action and relayed out in foul-mouthed terms the weak points in the enemy's defense. The Witch hung back, charging up her magic for a direct assault. It was a colossal melee unlike anything that had ever occurred before on the streets of that Illinois town.

"Rally, my friends! The day will soon be ours!" The Critic cried, swinging with all his might at a Cloak that was trying to chop his face off. His sword smacked the Cloak directly in the face. It shrieked and leapt backward. Redoubled, The Critic ran after him and struck again. His sword broke clean in two.

"Oh damnit!" The Critic retreated as the Cloak ran after him, poking weakly at it with the shattered end of his once-proud weapon. Elsewhere, Benzaie was biting Cat on the shoulder while Cat was biting him in the arm, and Lupa and The Chick were busy trying to wrestle the broom from the Witch's gnarled fingers.

"We must work together to defeat them!" The Critic shouted over the din. He grabbed Mickey's miniscule but intact dagger and rejoined the Cloak he'd been fighting in battle. Mickey, left with no recourse, began blocking sword blows from Cloak One with his arm instead.

_"Work together this, assholes!"_ The Voice of the Ancient World sped down the line of Awesome-teers. He slammed into Eight Bit Mickey, butted Linkara in the side, and knocked Benzaie for a loop. Laughing like some douchebag frat boy, he sped off in search of more prey.

"Prepare to die, traitor!" Jaffers squawked at Suede. Suede, not one to confront a terrible boss in such an uncouth manner, stood placidly as Jaffers tried out a series of supposedly intimidating stances that were totally unfeasible as actual sword fighting maneuvers. The Good Witch, after regaining her broom, began a mighty storm of lightning that rained down upon her enemies. She cackled madly as the bolts stormed into the ground, scattering foes everywhere and setting the grass aflame. It was nice to get out of the house, she thought as one errant fork shocked The Critic in the butt.

Another stray shot hit Benzaie's sword. Rather than melting it, the magically-imbued lightning transformed the sword, turning it into a true weapon unlike anything that had ever existed before. Benzaie felt the strength coursing up his arm. The sword had changed into a thing of power, and it was his alone to wield. With it he would turn the tide of this battle and save the day for all mankind!

"I HAVE THE POWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEER!" he held the sword high above his head. Unfortunately, it was at that moment that the momentary magical power held within the sword dissipated. The heavy brass sword dropped swiftly back to earth, taking Benzaie down with it.

_"I… had the power…" _he coughed. Cat, meanwhile, had cornered Lupa in a stretch of the field. It hissed at her, and she did her best and least convincing portrayal of a maiden in distress. Cat continued hissing at her, and she continued her impression. This went on for several leagues of time until Lupa became fed up.

"Oh forget this!" she huffed. With mighty agility, she leapt forward and bit Cat on its eye, tearing it out with great relish. The Cat-man leapt backward and screamed in both fear and confusion. Elsewhere, Jaffers swung his sword at the Elf Chick, but missed. The Chick put him in a headlock and proceeded to give him the noogie of a lifetime. Jaffers screamed, but the Chick held on tight.

"C'mon, who else wants some?" The Voice taunted, zipping around the battlefield. "Anybody? Anybody? How about you, little man?" he gestured vaguely at Mickey. Being an orb without any appendages, he couldn't give the finger or any other obscene sign at him. He failed to notice the giant mountain of a rock-man stomping up behind him.

_"Rockbiter smash!" _Phelous shouted, crushing The Voice in-between his two mighty palms. The Voice was undaunted. He smashed Phelous in the head with his own fist, using the brunt of the brute's weight against him. Phelous toppled to the ground, unconscious.

"Voice beats fatso! Ha ha!" The orb sped off. Jaffers had finally managed to start landing blows on Suede, albeit in a rude and improper fashion. Suede adapted to the style as best he could. He was unpredictable, Suede thought, but in a bad way. Doing odd stunts like twirling the sword in one hand in a proper fight was a good way to lose a vital appendage, like a toe.

The storm of the Witch intensified as it continued onward. Very slowly, Team One was driven backwards across the field. Even with their speech-infused resolve keeping them alive, the continual onslaught of magical creatures was easily overpowering their efforts. They were losing.

Suede, taking a break from fighting Jaffers, decided to rectify this. He crept up casually behind the Witch and tapped her on the shoulder. The Witch turned to face him. At roughly six foot two he was a menacing sight to behold.

"I find that very vexing," he said, knocking her out with a single punch. The storm ceased immediately, and a new wave of hope surged through Team One. Sage caught the blade of a Cloak in his hands, breaking it with one swift turn of his mighty arms. Linkara, after having sustained several cuts from another Cloak, finally reached for the trusty magic gun stowed away in his back pocket. He unleashed a frenzy of magically-enhanced shots at The Cloaks. They hissed and retreated back from the gun's radius immediately.

"I told you about the power of magic, Critic!" he laughed joyously as he fired. _"_Who's laughing now, you magically-maligned misfit morons? _Who's laughing now!" _He fired another shot in the face of Cloak One, sending him stumbling back toward the avenue.

"Alright, fine! Magic is kind of cool!" The Critic gasped, in-between bonks on the head from a much less formidable but still formidable enough for The Critic Cat. "Now help me get rid of this guy before I get a concussion!"

"AWK! AWK! AWK! AWK! AWK! AWK! AWK!" With each "awk" Jaffers slammed his sword down on Suede's sheath, which Suede used to parry the unsuccessful blows. At any time, he could have used his own sword to slice through the back of Jaffers' neck, but he relented. This was actually somewhat relaxing.

"You will believe a boy can fly!" Mickey cried. "Launch me, Willow!"

Tom, acquiescing to his friend's request, picked Mickey up by an arm and leg. He began to whirl around and around in a wide circle, as if he was tossing a hammer at the Olympics.

"I'm flying! I can't believe I'm flying!" Mickey, who by this point had lost all touch with reality, stretched his free arm out in a heroic flying pose. Tom spun faster and faster, and, at the apex of his swing, he let Mickey free from his grip. Mickey flew majestically over the battle and slammed into the dirt, coming to rest at the foot of a tree some yards off. Tom went over to his friend and stood him up in order to check on his condition.

"Sorry, little buddy," he winced. "I didn't get your trajectory right."

"At this time, we would like you to please return your tray tables to their upright positions. Thank you for flying Painful Airlines…" Mickey replied. He collapsed to the ground afterward.

_Conan to Crom. Come in, Crom… _Benzaie thought. He was standing pensively in the middle of the battle, lost in his own thoughts as the fight raged on around him. He had decided to invoke the rite of his deity in order to win the day. _I have never prayed to you before. I have no tongue for it. All I ask is that I may win this battle, and be allowed to see Beary again; he misses me. He is so gentle and kind, like a little Mother Teresa covered in fur. I only wish that I may see him once more before I perish…_

_Hello? Who's this?_

_Huh?_

_Who's praying?_

_What the hell?_

_Hello? Who's praying?_

_Uh… is this Crom?_

_Yeah._

_Holy crap! It actually worked! _

_Yeah, I'm the patron of the valorous in battle, aren't I? _

_This is so awesome! My name is Benzaie, and I'm a huge fan of yours— _

_Time's a-waistin', kid. Whatdya want?_

_Oh, sorry… I was wondering if you could help us out with this battle we've got going here. It's a little messy; we're fighting against magical freaks of nature, and we're kind of unprepared for this type of thing…_

_Sorry. No can do. I'm not cleared to help with fights against magical creatures; you're gonna hafta pray to Alhazred, the god of magic and sorcery._

_Oh, really?_

_Yup._

_Well, I'm sorry I wasted your time. _

_You'd better be! I'm watching __Harry and the Hendersons__ on cable! Next time be a man and fight your own battles, ya schmuck!_

With a loud, vigorous burp, Crom disconnected. Benzaie, taken aback by the impetuous and course behavior of a barbarian war god, declared mightily: _"Then to hell with you!" _He was then promptly punched in the face by Cloak Three.

"Alright, let's try this again…" Mickey had retaken his place in Tom's muscular grip, and they were trying once again to loft him into the center of the battle. Mickey failed to clear the ground on the second pass, flopping into the dirt once again and sending Tom stumbling after him.

In a heated duel of wits, The Critic and Jaffers were locked. Jaffers knocked away The Critic's miniscule dagger and pointed his sword directly at The Critic's meaty throat. His unfocused eyes were now focused on a location somewhere in his opponent's general direction.

"Foolish Critic!" he laughed half-heartily. "You are no match for the might of fantasy! You and your pitiful friends should have stayed onweb!"

"Online, dolt," The Critic shot back.

"Whatever! You're going to die now!" With a final thrust, Jaffers hefted his sword back for the killing blow. Suddenly, there came a majestic if not completely un-cadenced voice from somewhere in a given direction opposite of the battle:

_"Look to the east!" _it cried. The group stopped its fighting and obeyed. At the top of the eastern hill, Spoony stood triumphantly, staff held high.

"Spoony…" The Critic magnificent-ed. "I knew he'd make it somehow."

* * *

Spoony stood on the grassy knoll, surveying the scene below him with eyes far older and wiser than he could ever hope to be. The situation looked grim. Team One was severely outnumbered; they required desperate aid, and fast. In one hand, he held the mighty Flame of Arnor, the jet black semi-automatic weapon of choice for many a valorous Istari. With this mighty meat grinder at his beck and call he was well equipped to give it to them.

"So The Critic Nostalgia stands alone..." he mused. Out from behind him stepped Angry Joe, his lesser MP-5 and M-16 at the ready.

"Yeah… we should get in there and help them, shouldn't we?" Joe replied.

"Ah, right." Spoony hefted his gun and staff in the air. "To The Critic!"

With that the two charged down the hill firing madly. Out from behind a nearby knoll streamed the rest of Team Two. They had been lying in wait for the arbitrary signal of Spoony's leadership, rather than jumping into the fight even though they were sorely needed. The enemy obstacles turned to face them. The battle had now become a fray.

All except JewWario rushed headlong toward the waiting enemy. He marched to the top of the knoll, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. He put a hand on his tights as Team Two sprinted closer and closer to the line of demons waiting for them. He put another hand on the other side of his tights as the hellish enemy army began their own charge.

And, at the last possible instant before the clash, JewWario pulled the front of his tights down. A mighty blaring light streamed forth from his unchained package, blinding everyone facing him at that moment. The Cloaks, Cat, and the Witch turned away from the sight of its pure majesty in agony, allowing themselves to be waylaid by Team Two's onslaught.

"How in the name of Heidegger he doing that!" Linkara shouted, flabbergasted.

"Faith," Suede replied wistfully. "Few men have the power of the illuminated crotch; fewer still have chosen to use it for good instead of evil. Best thank the Lord that he's still on our side."

A Camaro passed JewWario on the road. The driver honked his horn. JewWario gave an a-OK back to him.

* * *

At the battle, things were slowly turning in the tide of the now reunified Awesome-teers. Film Brain and Luke both tapped Cloak One on the shoulder with their wands. He turned to them.

_"Expecto my fist!"_ the two shouted in unison. With two miniscule punches combined into one normal punch, the Cloak was toppled. The Snob fended off the defanged Cat with his belt-whip, while Todd in the Shadows and Paw both ganged up on The Voice.

"You want to go, asshole? Huh!" The Voice shouted, his evil tone slightly muffled by Todd's grip. "I'll take the both of you right here, right now, ya floor sucking maggots!"

"Whatever! Hey Paw!" Todd cried, struggling against The Voice's jerking. "Batter up!"

Paw choked up on his staff like a baseball bat, egging his friend on to throw the winning pitch of the season. With every ounce of strength he had, Todd threw a perfect fastball at Paw. Paw connected magnificently, sending The Voice careening into the heavens like a homer from Hank Aarons himself.

"_FUUUUUUUuuuuuuuk…" _The Voice's scream dissipated as he flew from sight. Todd and Paw chest bumped to celebrate a grand slam victory.

_"Home run for Profion!" _Paw shouted happily."_That makes up for every Little League game I've crapped out on!"_

_"Say jallo to my little friend!" _Joe screamed, firing wildly from his M-16 at Jaffers and Cloak One. Lupa, suddenly sporting a black leather jacket and an 80s coif, pulled Joe's sheathed MP-5 from his back and started firing alongside him. The bullet hailstorm sent the two villains packing. Joe paused momentarily to enjoy the show of an empowered modern woman firing round after round at two hapless victims.

"Somehow, that is strangely arousing," he commented.

Cat leapt at Spoony, trying to claw his eyes out or at least tear his magic beard off. Spoony responded by tearing Cat from Cat-man's hand.

"Aha! Go back to the litter-box from whence ye came, pussy!" He threw the stuffed toy to the ground and stabbed it through the chest with his staff. The Cat-man flopped to the ground in agony, somehow still connected to the miniscule ragdoll that was now bleeding fluff underneath the hilt of Spoony's tine. "Sucker," he smirked.

Meanwhile, Suede had finally managed to locate the gemstone after seconds of fruitless searching. He leapt back to his feet to find Joe searching for more enemies through the scope of his gun. Joe noticed his long-lost friend and burst into a happy grin.

"Suede!" he beamed. "What are you doing here, man?"

"Oh nothing much, just finding the magic gemstone!" he placed the stone back on the gauntlet proudly. It shined majestically in the overcast semi-sun.

"Excellent! Why is that good news?"

"It's the power source for the gauntlet!"

"Alright!" Joe turned to the rest of the group, who by now had managed to fend off the remnants of their foes. "Guys, we got it! We got the gauntlet's power stone!"

"Let me see!" The Critic snatched the glove away from Suede and, seeing that the stone was indeed reattached, held it aloft triumphantly. "WE DID IT! WE SAVED THE GAUNTLET!"

A mighty cheer rose up from the assembled group. They had won! The gauntlet was theirs! Now all they had to do was hide it before—

The entire group fell deadly silent. They lowered their outstretched weapons. They were looking at something very bad, something that was standing behind The Critic and his precious treasure. The Critic, his happiness rapidly fading, slowly turned to face the western side of the field. There was a man standing on the opposite side of the avenue. A dark man.

He didn't move. He didn't need to. Everything he needed to convey was conveyed through the sheer force of his presence. The bitter wind, which had been blowing constantly all day long, finally erupted into a tempest which chilled the soul of every man and woman standing victorious in that field. It was over. The gauntlet could not be saved. They were too late.

Malachite had already found them.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Once again: O.O

-Xoanon


	28. Part 7, Chapter 27

**Part 7: The End of Many Things**

**Chapter 27: Malachite's Return**

The reassembled team looked on in horror as Malachite stood menacingly in front of the wide avenue. In their minds there flashed a million possible scenarios involving their untimely and sure to be incredibly painful demises. Would he smash them to bits with his magic? Overturn the entire field and bury them alive beneath its dirt? Perhaps he would be merciful and simply atomize them, sparing them the agony of a drawn-out death at his uncaring hands. But that seemed supremely unlikely. Judging by his overall demeanor he was instead opting to take things very slow.

The Critic suddenly had a very strange, paranoid feeling, one that he was a pitiful dweeb at the mercy of God or fate or whoever ran this crazy slaughterhouse of a universe that he resided in. It passed rather quickly, being replaced by a burning panic directed at the hapless patsy whom he had gifted the original map to.

That patsy was Spoony the Grey, who was busy cowering from Malachite with the rest of Team Two. The Critic turned and approached the warlock briskly. Spoony looked very nervous all of a sudden, shifting his staff from hand to hand and attempting to avoid The Critic's burning yet somehow serene gaze.

"You didn't bring the map with you, didja?" he said, almost disbelievingly.

"Umm… maybe?"

"YOU STUPID SON OF AN ASS-BASTARD THAT HOW HE'S BEEN TRACKING US!" The Critic screamed, beating his compatriot over the head with his mythic gauntlet.

"I knew it! You did do something to the map!" Spoony accused between blows.

"I didn't do it!" The Critic shot back. "It was Malachite! He put a tracking spell on it so he could follow us here!"

"What are we going to do?" Luke asked.

"Nothing," Suede replied gravely. "This guy's bad news. From what I've heard from the obstacles over coffee, this guy's more powerful than all of them put together."

"So we're boned, then?" The Snob asked.

"There's a good chance we are, yes."

"Aw game over, man! Game over!" Phelous wailed.

"It's not game over yet! We can still stand and fight!" Linkara countered.

"How?" The Critic yelled. "How can we possibly fight this guy?"

"Uh, we could try another rousting speech?" Lupa hoped.

"Okay, let me think…" The Critic mock-acquiesced. "My dear—_we're all gonna die, you idiots! _Haven't you guys got the memo yet? This guy's super-powerful and can kill us at a moment's notice!"

"Well, why hasn't he done it yet?" Tom questioned.

The Critic rounded on him, then realized that Tom actually had a valid point. He turned to face the walking nightmare that was still standing on the opposite side of the street. For whatever reason, he hadn't moved toward them yet. He was just standing there. It was terrifying standing, yes, but it wasn't exactly the excruciating physical torment one expected from a demonic magical warrior.

"That's a good question," The Critic turned to Suede. "Why hasn't he killed us yet?"

Suede shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe he's savoring the moment."

"He's been savoring the moment for a pretty long time," Linkara said.

"Maybe he's like a vampire, and he can't cross streets," Film Brain posited.

"Or maybe it's something that's not completely stupid," Sage replied.

"Shouldn't we be running like hell, then?" Spoony asked.

The group continued to watch as Malachite continued to watch them from across the street. The howling wind chilled them to their very souls, more than it had managed to in the entirety of that horrible day. It was almost as if the sorcerer managed to call it into being by thought alone. Then, suddenly...

Malachite moved off the sidewalk and into the street. The team automatically grouped into a line of battle once again, drawing their weapons in an inefficacious show of force. They could hear the thumping of his elder staff as he made his way across the tarmac. It was coming ever closer, ever closer, growing louder with each minute over the rushing of the wind. A large suburban swooped into view. The others faces lightened—surely, they reasoned, even a master mage wouldn't be able to withstand a head-on collision with sixty tons of metal moving at roughly forty-five miles an hour. The driver honked his horn, swerving slightly as his vehicle neared the fleshy obstruction. It was only feet away, then inches, then—

The car disappeared in a blinding explosion. Both it and the driver were obliterated entirely. A mushroom cloud rose high into the air, accompanied by a ring of thick black smoke which spread out from the epicenter of the blast like a pall. A red haze wafted up into the sky. Bits of liquid metal rained down onto the asphalt. The others stared aghast at this gruesome spectacle. They were wrong. Cars weren't his weakness. They were his natural prey.

"Oh, this is gonna _suck_…" Phelous groaned.

The sorcerer stepped onto the grassy field. The team tightened their grips on their weapons, ready for the battle that would decide the fate of the entire world. The Critic held out his broken sword in one hand. This was it, he thought. This was the end.

Behind them, The Cloaks, having recovered from their ass-stomping, noticed the impending doom in human form advancing across the field. Almost instantly, their instinctive programming to defend the game kicked in.

"'Tis Malachite! The evil one!" Cloak Two cried.

"Kill him!" Cloak Three cried, raising its sword.

"Stand aside, whelps!" Cloak One hissed to the line of assembled soldiers. "We shall deal with this!"

Cloaks Two and Three charged forth to attack Malachite, swords raised high and voices shrieking out demonic swears from beyond the pits of Hell itself. Malachite was undaunted by their approach. They met him halfway out on the field. Swiftly, he blocked the swings from their swords with his staff, sending them reeling with well-placed kicks to their chests and knees. Both Cloaks fell to the ground in agony. Within seconds, two of the most powerful beings on the planet had been defeated.

"Well, we've had a good run," Mickey sighed, discarding his tiny dagger.

Malachite, meanwhile, was busy engaging an old friend of his. The defeated Chuck Jaffers, chain mail armor pulled up over his head, had dizzily stumbled into the path of the dangerous wizard. He swung feebly once or twice at the invisible enemies around him with his sword, unable to notice that he failed to connect with anything. Malachite waited patiently until he managed to pull off the heavy mail. Jaffers' eyes widened when he saw the dark warrior in front of him. His sword dropped from his grasp immediately.

"Oh! Uh, hey Malachite!" he said cheerily, though his tone was much more fearful than it had ever been before. "How've you been doing?"

Malachite didn't answer.

"That's great, man. Really... really great... So I guess you want the gauntlet back now, huh?"

Malachite nodded.

"Well…" Jaffers began. "I hate to tell you this man, but I don't really have it anymore. Y'see, the guys behind me kinda figured out the whole game and managed to win it from me in an epic battle of mighty proportions. Sorry."

Malachite, without any noticeable change in his features, looked as if he were ready to tear Jaffers in half with his bare hands. Jaffers, by now dimly aware that he was about to become just another name on Malachite's very long list of casualties, spoke once more:

"Uh… no hard feelings?"

A swift uppercut to the chin sent Chuck Jaffers flying. Literally. With a mighty scream, he rocketed bodily into the atmosphere, the team wincing in both pain and annoyance at his terrible yelling as they witnessed his rapid departure. Eventually, the scream faded off into nothing. He was gone. Chuck Jaffers had become one of the only people in the entirety of history to achieve low-Earth orbit without the use of a rocket.

Malachite turned to face Cloak One, by now the only real threat left for him to face besides Cat and The Good Witch of the Woods, who weren't in any real condition to stop him anyway. Malachite continued his walk, bypassing the two entirely. With a causal wave of his hand, a bolt of something red hot and electric annihilated them both. Cloak One brought his sword to bear on Malachite. He looked ready to fight, ready to die to protect the gauntlet, ready to be blown to bits to defend it if necessary, ready to—

"Oh the hell with this!" the Cloak cast off his outer cowl. Underneath it there was a pudgy-looking, be-mustached man who looked more or less as frightened as the rest of the Awesome-teers in his stead. "I'm getting out of here! Enjoy your painful deaths, assholes!"

With that, the man took off at a sprint for the far side of the meadow. The others watched him go, more confused than offended at being called assholes for no apparent reason.

"Wasn't that The Last Angry Geek?" The Critic asked. "Doesn't he do reviews for us?"

"Be sure to watch my show next week, if there is one!" The Geek called back. "Follow us on Facebook at The Angry Geek!"

Malachite was unmoved at this departure. He continued to step closer and closer to the line of critics in front of him. They began to slowly inch back from his advance. Malachite took one last step and stopped. He was less than twenty feet away from them, close enough to smite them all with a single stroke from his magic staff if he so wished. The assembled nerds held their breaths. This really was it this time. This was the end.

The Critic, deciding that he'd had enough, stepped forward to defend his prize from the jerkoff that was attempting to steal it from him. He picked up his discarded Master Sword's hilt and raised it high, the gauntlet still grasped tight in his spindly fingers.

"Alright, now listen here, you _Dark City_ backwash!" The Critic shouted. "You may think you're pretty tough—and you are! There's no denying it! But you know what? We're pretty tough too! We managed to defeat those guys all on our own, without any fancy-schmancy magical powers or junk! We've earned this gauntlet, pal! And there is no way—absolutely no way—you will ever, _ever_ get your hands on it! You hear me? Ever!"

Malachite stretched out one hand. The gauntlet went flying from The Critic's grip to his. He put it on. The Critic, still attempting to process what had happened, looked from his hand to Malachite's in a blur of cartoonish proportions. The others collectively facepalmed as he did so, wondering why they had elected him their leader again in the process.

"Oh son of a…" The Critic stepped up to Malachite, presumably because he had some kind of death wish. "Alright, buddy, if there's one thing I can't abide by in a dark lord of magic, it's cheating! Hand it over!"

Malachite refused.

"Alright, you asked for it!" The Critic brought his broken blade to bear on Malachite. _"Face the wrath of Zelda, bitch!" _

Malachite held out his gauntleted hand. The Critic's entire body froze precariously, his sword trapped in mid-swing like a fly in amber. The Critic struggled to move again. He couldn't. Malachite's magical grip had him thorougly bound. Malachite raised a single finger. The sword, now under his power, raised itself to the highest height it could reach underneath The Critic's grip. With all possible quickness he brought it down directly onto The Critic's groin. There was a horrible "squish" noise as the sword's hilt met its target. He brought it up to bear again, and repeated.

He did it a third time.

And a fourth time.

And a fifth time.

A sixth.

Seventh.

Eighth.

For the others, having to witness this brutal and shamelessly malicious act was far too much for them to bear. They shielded their eyes against the bruising of The Critic's apples, stumbling away from the sound of the sword's plastic mashing into cotton fibers. Through it all, The Critic refused to cry out, mostly because Malachite's binding spell made it impossible for him to do so. Finally, after thirteen agonizing blows, the wicked sorcerer let The Critic drop to the ground in peace, his consciousness leaving him as he did so.

Malachite, unable to empathize in any way with the man he had essentially castrated, instead stared aghast at the new vessel for his power. This was a far cry from the enchanted iron and leather he had originally used. It felt… strange, alien. Perplexed about its design and purpose, he called upon the filth in front of him for an explanation:

"This is not my original gauntlet," he said.

"Actually, that's the Power Glove," JewWario clarified. "It's a backfired piece of technological flotsam from the 80s."

With a single kiai, Malachite loosed a bolt of blue energy on JewWario. It slammed into him with the speed and ferocity of a raging bull, sending him careening into the dirt. Fortunately for JewWario, his stuffed trousers were able to absorb most of the blow.

Malachite relaxed his hand. So, he thought, his original handmade gauntlet had finally been replaced by this… thing. He turned it over and over, inspecting every inch of it with his un-eyes. Finally, he gave it his own succinct appraisal:

"I love the Power Glove. It's so bad."

Suddenly, a bolt of magical energy caught Malachite square in the chin. The wizard was knocked backward into the grass. The blast had come from Linkara's gun, which the swaggering semi-hero was twirling in one hand in a show of intimidation. Malachite leapt back to his feet, enraged. He rounded on the mystic knight in front of him.

"Good, bad. I'm the guy with the magic gun," Linkara smirked.

"Very well, then." Malachite answered. "Shall we duel?"

"Oh yes, lets."

And so the final, final battle began.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I always wondered why the team didn't run like hell when they realized Malachite was standing there.

-Xoanon


	29. Part 7, Chapter 28

**Chapter 28: The Final, Final Battle**

Linkara's ploy was simple: strike hard, strike fast, and riddle Malachite with so many bullet holes that he would never be able to ingest liquids again afterwards. He fired three magical shots in rapid succession at his enemy. Malachite deflected them all with his gauntleted fist. With a small smirk, he raised his fingertips to his lips. With a single breath a raging torrent of fire issued forth from his mouth, singing Linkara's knight costume and driving him back from the flames. The group ducked. Obviously, this was going to be harder than they'd originally thought.

"Alright! Standard Bond villain procedure!" Suede cried, taking over as leader from the obviously incapacitated Critic. "We each attack him one at a time, or in groups of two! Under no circumstances do you attack twice! Joe, Lupa, get to it!"

Joe and Lupa stepped forward, the two of them armed respectively with Joe's MP-5 and M-16. Joe pointed a single finger at Malachite, calling him out for some unknown offence.

"Hello! My name is Amigo Toyota!"

Malachite did not understand the mangled reference.

"Whatever! _You killed my father prepare to die!_" With that he and Lupa opened fire. The hailstorm of bullets bounced off the magically-enchanted staff Malachite twirled in front of him. Despite their commendable spirits, and the extra-cool way in which they fired their weapons from their hips, neither Joe nor Lupa could defeat Malachite. He was completely untouched by their fury.

"Wow. Awesome," Joe breathed.

It wasn't so awesome when a charged blast from the staff sent the two careening in opposite directions. Joe landed hard on the ground next to a smoldering Linkara.

"Wasn't that just the normal version of my plan?" he choked.

"Shaddup," Joe wheezed.

Spoony decided to attack next. He charged forward, shaking his staff madly. Malachite, somewhat eager to fight a fellow bo user, leapt into his own stance. Spoony, legs bowed, jumped toward Malachite in a completely unworkable fighting pose. With a single whack from Malachite, the duct taped broom handle fell to the ground.

"And… that was kind of my only thing," Spoony said nervously. "But, going out on a limb here…" he reached into his holding bag and produced his fire beanbag.

"Fire!" he threw the bag at Malachite. Like before, it had no effect. Enraged at such an idiotic parody of magical combat, Malachite threw his staff to the ground and confronted Spoony face to face.

"Oh, so that's how it is, eh?" Spoony put up his dukes. "Fisticuffs it is! I'll let you have first dukes, chump!"

Malachite made an "O" with his thumb and pointer finger. He aimed it directly at the bridge of Spoony's nose.

"Uh oh…"

With one flick, Spoony was sent flying just as the most-certainly-late Chuck Jaffers had been earlier. In seconds, he was sent shooting over the horizon, never to return. A small "ding" sound was heard, most likely the ringing in everyone's ears from all the electric-based attacks.

"Spoony!" Linkara and Joe cried.

"Alright, that's it…" The Critic moaned. He sat up with great effort. "Nobody punches my friends into the stratosphere unless I get to videotape it!"

"Critic! You're not dead!" Mickey marveled.

"No, but I'm _really_ sore…" The Critic rounded on Malachite once again. "Okay, mister, now it is on. You are going to—!"

Malachite raised his arm and sent the sword's hilt plummeting into The Critic's flesh bags again.

"No you're not." The Critic toppled to the ground without complaint.

"Don't worry, Critic! I'll avenge you!" Mickey entered the fray next, shouting at the top of his lungs while "flying" rings around Malachite's head. After a few moments he stopped from dizziness.

"And that's pretty much all I've got," he said. A single kick sent him plowing into the hill on the opposite side of the field.

"Alright, this is getting dangerous," The Chick said, tossing her cloak from her shoulders. "It's time for this asshole to feel the fey feminine touch of the Elves."

She stepped forward, ignoring the pleas from her better-brained peers, walking slowly up to Malachite whispering words in the old tongue of Murkwood. The world disappeared for the final time in a murky mist of whiteness, though the words spoken there did not have the effect their user so desired. This is what was said in that awkward place:

_Uh… Wow. I'm drawing a total blank right_

_ Now. Can we reschedule, or is this _

_ A bad time? How is your Tuesday? Because_

_ Mine's open. Okay, okay, here it goes:_

_ Um, Mr. Malachite? Please don't murder_

_ Us. Or something. I don't know how to make_

_ This poetic. Uh… naked streets fix or wild _

_Eyed bushy men. Tintinnabulation._

_Something something wire in a combat site._

_We are the world, forgive the children and_

_May God bless us all each and everyone._

_Did you buy this, or should I keep going?_

Todd leaned over to talk to Sage. "What the hell is she doing?"

The Nostalgia Chick was prancing around Malachite like some kind of possessed idiot at a rave, spewing out random words and waving her arms as she did so.

"I have absolutely no idea," Sage replied. "She just dances around and speaks gibberish."

"Does it work?"

"Sort of. It confused the hell out of me when I first saw it."

"I guess that counts for something."

The Chick, unsure of whether or not her spell worked, attempted to deliver the knockout blow to Malachite's face. Malachite caught her arm easily. He raised his own fist to deliver his own painful annihilation, making sure to cause extra pain for her total butchering of the dance of Caucasus Elves.

"Wait!" The Chick pleaded. Malachite relented momentarily. The Chick called out to the side of the battle: "Stunt double!"

At once, the double appeared at The Chick's side. She was called Nella, The Chick's best friend-for-hire and lackey.

"You summoned, m'lady?" Nella said.

"Yeah, I've got a pain scene to do here. Get cracking."

"Oh, sure!" Nella took the place of The Chick in Malachite's grip. The Chick, high-tailing it for greener pastures, gave Malachite the OK to punch. He caught Nella square in the nose as she tried to take off her glasses.

"Such a good BFF," The Chick sniffled as Nella toppled to the ground, unconscious.

"Die, foul devil!" Sage cried, charging forth with the strength of a million Jesus-lions. Malachite aimed a kick at his stomach. By some miracle, Sage actually caught it. The two struggled with each other for a moment before Malachite levitated himself into the air, catching Sage in the chin with his foot. Sage fell backwards as Malachite landed perfectly on his feet. His hat, which had tumbled off in the act, was swiftly replaced on his head.

The Cinema Snob stepped forward, uncoiling his belt-whip. This man was no match for the might of the archeologist who had discovered The Ark of the Covenant, the Holy Grail, and some bullshit about flying saucers in the Amazon. This battle was about to end.

"You betrayed Sheba!" he shouted, cracking the belt rather failingly. Malachite simply magicked his staff back to his hand. In a display of arcane mastery, he twirled and whipped it around in motions so fast that it appeared as a blur to the naked eye. With a mighty crack, the earth beneath Malachite shook as he plunged the staff's tip into it.

"Y'know, I think Sheba'll get over it," The Snob announced. He dropped the belt and ran for his life. Meanwhile, The Critic attempted to get up once more.

"Okay… maybe we can just talk this out—"

Malachite gave his answer in the form of another crotch slam.

"I'm goin' down…"

"Alright, to hell with protocol!" Suede raised his sword high. "Attack!"

With that, Suede, Paw, Todd, Film Brain and Luke, Marzgurl, JewWario, Handsome Tom, and Benzaie all leapt at the mad mage. Malachite deflected them all succinctly with a single magical shockwave which sent each of them to the earth in turn. The Awesome-teers had been defeated; the final, final battle was over. Malachite had won.

Malachite surveyed his wounded opponents, and smiled. "A fine effort, but alas it has been all in vain. Your world of metal and wheels has come to an end," he said proudly. "Today, I shall unmake this world—this technological dystopia—and retake my rightful place as ruler of a new Era of the Supernatural. And the first victims of my fury shall be the ones standing on this field; those who have _dared_ oppose me…"

The Critic, just in time to be obliterated, regained consciousness yet again.

"Okay, just hear me out for one second…" he panted.

"You are too late, fool!" Malachite retorted. "This age of nightmares is finished! The accursed reign of science and technology is at an end! Tomorrow, the sun shall rise on a new world, one where magic is law! _And there I shall be king!_"

The wind blew even harder. Electricity crackled underneath Malachite's feet. The Awesome-teers stumbled back as his magical energy began to glow hot around him. The soles of Malachite's shoes left the ground and he levitated into the air. As they did so, he began to laugh. It was a jolly laugh, but at the same time it was a very creepy, almost psychotic laugh. The laughter filled the ears of everyone in attendance, ringing in their cochleae, their minds, and in their very souls. It was the most hellish noise they'd ever heard…

Until suddenly, it was ceased by the second-most hellish noise they'd ever heard. It was a strange ringing emanating from an unknown point of origin, sounding almost like an clarion made out of angry bees. It was a digitized telephone ring. Malachite, sighing at the fact that his moment of triumph was being interrupted, lowered his staff and sighed.

"Excuse me. I have to take this," he said. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a bright red HTC EVO 4G cellular phone, turning away from the Awesome-teers to answer the call. The Critic, flabbergasted at what was occurring in front of him, turned to the others for some sort of explanation. The others had no idea what to think of this development. It made absolutely no sense to them either. For someone who hated technology a lot, Malachite sure did have a sweet smartphone.

"Hello? Oh hey, what's up?" Malachite said into his phone. "Oh yeah, I'm doing it right now… Uh huh… Oh, totally. They're running scared… What? Oh sure, that's a double mocha… Just a little milk… No, that's a latte. Put a little more foam on the top… More foam, less milk. That's a cappuccino… Alright, I've gotta get back to this. Just do what you can and I'll get back to you, okay? Sure… Okay, bye."

Malachite hung up and turned back to the fight. "Sorry about that. New guy. Now, where were—"

"What the fuck was that?" The Critic spat out.

"What?"

"That! That thing right there!" The Critic pointed at the red hot phone still in Malachite's hand.

"What, this?" Malachite gestured to his phone.

"That's a friggin' EVO! Why do you have that if you hate technology?"

"No it isn't," Malachite replied casually.

"Yes it is!"

"No it isn't!"

"It's like having a fricking computer in your hand!" Paw shot back.

"I would never use one of those filthy boxes!"

"Well why do you use that?" Linkara asked pointedly.

"I'm just using it for now, nothing more," Malachite shot back.

"Well what happens when you 'unmake the world of technology', smart guy? Huh? What happens then?" The Critic questioned.

"Simple…" Malachite replied. "I'll think of something."

"You are an idiot!" The Critic accused.

"Well at least I'm not a hypocrite!" Malachite accused back.

"…Alright, I can't. I simply can't…" The Critic walked off to take a break from the blistering stupidity of their not-so-terrifying-anymore opponent. "Somebody else try to knock some sense into this guy or something, 'cause I can't take this fucking…"

"Y'see, a hypocrite is a person who says one thing, but then does something else opposite of what they just said," JewWario stepped in. "For example, you claim to hate technology, yet you have a smartphone. Q.E.D, you are a hypocrite."

"No I'm not," Malachite said.

"Yes you are," JewWario said back.

"No I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

With a roar of indignation, Malachite sent another magical wave at JewWario. The mighty codpiece-wearing warrior tumbled backwards into the arms of his allies.

"Very well! Then I say I shall kill you and follow through with my plan! Sound good?"

"Sure… You're still a hypocrite, though," JewWario choked.

JewWario's words were drowned out by the mighty blast Malachite unleashed from his staff. A gigantic glowing pillar erupted high into the air over the field, accompanied by a thunderous ka-boom. The Critic and his team stared aghast as the thing began to split into many large tentacles that arced out over the surrounding area. Tom and Mickey hugged each other, Benzaie covered his eyes, and Suede nodded his silent approval at the live-action portrayal of the beginning of every hentai video ever made.

"Doesn't anyone have any bright ideas?" The Critic shouted over the whirlwind.

_"It's too late!"_ Malachite shouted. _"There is no escape from the remaking, for it will become the new reality! Cast off your heretical ways! Bow down before your new master! The Age of Technology is over!"_

"Heart!"

The small voice came from somewhere in the region behind Malachite's dark head. The sorcerer's hell-beam cut off suddenly, and he turned to face this final, final, final opponent to his glory. It was Ma-Ti. He had returned for the final, final, final time.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **I was originally going to do something different with this chapter, but after some thought I decided it was okay. Originally it seemed kind of cheap to me to have Malachite be a hypocrite. But that was before I realized the Power Glove also counts as technology, and he was okay with that.

Check back tomorrow for the conclusion.

-Xoanon


	30. Part 7, Chapter 29

**Chapter 29: The Final, Final, Final Battle**

_"Ma-Ti! Noooooooooooo!"_ The Critic whispered as loud as he could, waving his arms in a desperate attempt to save his friend. _"Don't do it! Seriously! Don't!" _The others, also wanting to save their "friend" an unnecessary pounding, began copying The Critic's example.

"Oh I know, Critic! Believe me, I know!" Ma-Ti said bitterly, stepping forward until he was almost standing at Malachite's side. "You don't have to hide it anymore! I get it! 'Ma-Ti can't do anything!' 'Ma-Ti's totally useless!' 'Ma-Ti can't possibly be useful for this adventure in any way, shape or form!' I've heard it more fucking times than you can count, you son of a bitch, and I'm sick of it!"

"Seriously, Ma-Ti, get out of here! This isn't a good idea!" The Critic warned.

"Oh, what's not a good idea, Critic? Me fighting this guy here?" He gestured to the confused dark lord of magic standing at his side. "Let me guess, this Run DMC looking motherfucker is the big bad sorcerer that hates technology and is going to kill us all?"

The others nodded their heads yes, frantically.

"And all the other methods for dispatching him have totally failed?"

The others nodded yes. Again, frantically.

"Okay, fine!" Ma-Ti rounded on Malachite. "Then I've got only one thing to say to you, buddy! _Gooooooooo to Hell! _Go! To! Hell! Go to Hell and tell them Ma-Ti sent ya!"

"Oh, this is going to get ugly…" Todd grimaced.

"Christ save him," Suede prayed.

"You think you're so tough, don't you Mr. Supercalifragilistic-sorcerer's apprentice?" Ma-Ti spat, staining Malachite's coat and glasses with tiny flecks of rage-induced spittle. "Well, you know what? You don't scare me one bit! HA! How you like me now, Merlin? Huh? Does that feel good? It shouldn't!"

"Ma-Ti, you really don't understand…" Lupa began.

"No you don't understand!" Ma-Ti shot back. "I'm not scared of this asshole! I'm really not! I'm not scared of him because I don't care anymore! I saw, did and got shat on by everything before I hit puberty! And I'm fucking tired of it all! I'm tired of getting kidnapped by polluting industrialists! I'm tired of getting fifth billing at every Planeteer's reunion behind Wheeler—fucking Wheeler!—and I'm tired of stupid shit like this raining down on me! And stupid Gi!"

"Ma-Ti! Run! Get out of here now!" Linkara ordered.

"Shut up!" Ma-Ti replied.

"Ma-Ti, we're serious this time! You can't help us!" The Critic said sincerely. "We just don't want you to get hurt!"

"Oh, you don't want me to get hurt?" Ma-Ti mocked. "You don't want me to get hurt? That's a fucking funny joke! The Nostalgia Critic—the biggest ass-bang on the face of planet Earth, the asshole who's nearly gotten everyone here killed twice, who lies constantly to me and everyone else about everything—actually cares about my safety and worth as a human being! Well screw you, Critic! Screw you and screw the horse you rode in on!"

"It's the truth!"

"The truth is you're an asshole, Critic! A whiny, stupid, assy ass-muncher of an asshole!" Ma-Ti said definitively. "You're the one who deserves to get pounded! You made your own life a living hell, and now you're dragging everyone else down with you, including me! Well this guy here can't possibly hurt me any more than Ted Turner has, or you, or your so-called 'friends'!"

"No, Ma-Ti! We're serious! He will fucking kill you!" Mickey pleaded.

"You don't think I know that? You don't think I'm totally screwed?" Ma-Ti turned to Malachite for corroboration. "You're totally gonna rip me apart, aren't you?"

Malachite nodded.

"See? I knew that. I knew I'm not gonna be surviving today. But that doesn't mean I have to go out like a pansy! No, I'm gonna do what I always do: I'll pull out my useless Planeteer ring, point it at him, and say 'heart'!"

At the word "heart", a blast was emitted from Ma-Ti's ring. Malachite was launched ten feet into the air. He came down with a sickening thud on a mound of dirt some thirty yards away. Ma-Ti, stunned, looked down at his cheesy plastic ornament. It was glowing with an odd pinkish sort of energy. The Critic and his allies were completely floored. Where the hell had Ma-Ti gotten something that powerful?

"Huh. Weird," he said. "It's never done this before."

"His creations were passed down through time…" The Critic mused. "That's it! Ma-Ti!"

"What?"

"Your ring! It's the only thing that can defeat him! Use it again!"

"You're serious?"

"Totally!"

"Okay, cool…" Ma-Ti aimed his ring at Malachite once more. "Heart!"

Another blast from the ring was sent streaking at Malachite. It caught him square in the chest, sending him toppling back to the ground. With a shout of pure rage, Malachite sent his own blistering blast of magic at Ma-Ti. It caught him in the legs, pin-wheeling him head-over-heels into a grassy knoll.

"Ouch…" Ma-Ti groaned. He had little time to ruminate on his suffering before Malachite was upon him. He pinned Ma-Ti to the ground, bringing his glove to bear on the diminutive Indian.

"So, the lost Ring of Aeon has made its way to you…" he hissed. "No matter. I will soon rectify my old friend's mistake, along with the mistakes of the world he and his ilk have created. Prepare to meet oblivion, Ma-Ti. Any final words?"

"Yeah. Incoming!"

"What?" Malachite looked up just in time to get a mouthful of Spoony's left sneaker. The hapless Gandalf had zoomed out of the sky at just the right moment to save Ma-Ti from certain destruction. And strangely enough, he appeared no worse for the wear, aside from some severe loss of equilibrium and a healthy coating of permafrost.

"Dude, did Malachite just hit you around the world?" Todd asked, helping the half-frozen wizard to his feet.

"Uh, I don't know…" Spoony replied drunkenly. "I'm pretty sure I saw the sun rise and set twice, so it may have been a few more than that."

Losing no time, Ma-Ti got to his feet. Malachite did so as well, retrieving his now crushed hat from beneath him. Ma-Ti unleashed a devastating blast of "hearts" from his arsenal, the look of a thousand mistreated sidekicks boiling in his eyes. With each blow, Malachite was knocked back farther and farther from The Critic and his cohorts.

"Suck my big! Fat! Fucking! _HEART!_" he punctuated. With one final magnetic punch, Malachite was sent flying. The Critic and friends cheered as he touched down somewhere beyond the tiny field in a tangled clump of bushes. Victory was theirs!

Actually, victory wasn't theirs. The shrubberies disintegrated in a burst of green flame. Malachite, looking slightly worse for the wear with numerous cuts, bruises and shattered Ray-Bans, sprinted toward Ma-Ti while unleashing his own devastating barrage of magical energy. One blow caught Ma-Ti in the shoulder, another in the arm. The magic energy shook him to his very core, almost sending him to his knees. No pain like his had he ever experienced before. Not even at the hands of that bastard Hoggish Greedly…

"You can do it, Ma-Ti! I believe in you!" The Critic cried. "We believe in you!"

"Go Ma-Ti! Show that crazy bastard who's boss!" The Snob chimed in.

"The power is yours!" Linkara called out.

"I'm sorry I called you Gandhi that one time!" Lupa apologized.

Armed with the now unconditional love and support of his compatriots, Ma-Ti redoubled his efforts. With all his might he fired his beam of magnetism at Malachite. A carnation beam of light stretched out from the ring. Malachite unleashed his own emerald beam, which slammed into Ma-Ti's. The two were evenly matched in a struggle somewhat reminiscent of last year's title bout between Dr. Insano and N. Bison. Unlike that fight, however, this one was set to be more of a Thunderdome-style affair, one in which two men entered and one man left. Malachite was aiming to be that man.

"Heart!" The Critic cried. "Heart! Heart, heart, heart!"

"Heart!" Linkara repeated.

"Heart!" Spoony also repeated.

_"Pecardio!"_ Luke and Film Brain said together.

"Heart!" JewWario and Marzgurl cried.

"Heart!" Joe and Lupa yelled.

"Heart!" Suede shouted as loud as he could.

"Heart! Heart! Heart! Heart! Heart! Heart! Heart!" The group chanted this mantra in the hopes that it would grant Ma-Ti's technological ring the power it needed to wipe Malachite's homicidal, sanctimonious, hypocritical ass from the face of the planet. For a while, it seemed to work, as Ma-Ti's beam gained the upper hand over Malachite's. But then Malachite would pour some previously unseen strength into his beam, and then it would gain the upper hand. They fought as the dazzling lights brightened and the elements buzzed wildly. Both parties were nearing total exhaustion. It couldn't take much longer now…

The energy from the beams became blinding. A gigantic white light began to grow from where the two beams touched at the center. It grew larger, and larger, almost shrouding the battle from view at one point. A whirlwind kicked up around it, blowing faster and louder than any that had blown before, faster than even the gale Malachite had cooked up in his silent fury. The shrieking buzz from the magic and magnetic forces became a shriek that drowned out everything else, even the droning chant of "heart".

Almost everything else. At the very end of it all, when both sides had all but exhausted their supplies of war, two sounds were heard above all else: a loud, piercing scream of rage and frustration echoing from deep within a soul blackened by hatred and the dark arts, and a thin cry of pure love, loyalty and devotion. That cry was:

_"EAT! MY! HEARRRRT!"_

And, in the finality and impunity of that statement, the battle ended. The white bubble of light exploded outward, covering the entire world in its lack of coloration. A thunderous thunder crack accompanied it. The Critic and the Awesome-teers dropped to the ground, each one of their minds asking the same question: what had happened? The light subsisted for much longer than one would think as necessary, receding slowly afterward. The Critic uncovered his eyes to behold an empty green field. Malachite was nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly, a ragged piece of cloth dropped from the sky. It was Malachite's hat.

That was a good sign. The Critic raised his sword skyward in triumph. The others did so with their weapons as well. They had won. It may have been a hollow victory with no treasure or other goodies to show for it, but they had won their freedom from a world without technology. And that was enough.

"Ma-Ti! Ma-Ti! Ma-Ti! Ma-Ti" the assembled warriors cheered on their hero, Ma-Ti, the noble Indian who had bested the most evil sorcerer the world had ever known. The same hero that was lying a good forty yards off from them, on the ground, unconscious…

Slowly, the cheers died away. Ma-Ti wasn't moving. He wasn't doing anything.

"Ma-Ti?" The Critic asked no one. "Oh no! _Ma-Ti!_"

Immediately, he started sprinting to his friend's side, discarding his sword, hat, and for some reason his tie as he did so. The others simply stood there in disbelief. Ma-Ti couldn't be… he couldn't be dead, could he?

The Critic reached Ma-Ti and dropped down to his knees beside him. He looked much worse up close. The fight had done a very large exponential number on him. Most of his body was stained in dirt and sweat, his clothing had been riddled with steaming burn holes, and there was a general "I'm on my deathbed" look floating around in his eyes.

"Ma-Ti! Are you okay? Speak to me!" The Critic cried.

"Team… out of danger?" Ma-Ti choked.

"Yes," The Critic said.

"Good..." Ma-Ti coughed. Smoke poured out of his nostrils. "Good..."

"Don't die on us, Ma-Ti! Don't you dare!" The Critic gestured to his friends, who were standing idly by while Ma-Ti asphyxiated on the lawn. _"Get a stretcher, you idiots!"_

"Don't grieve, Critic…" Ma-Ti asked. "It is only logical that I die, after being roasted alive."

"I'm not grieving, I'm getting help!"

"Don't. It's too late…"

"You can't just up and die! What are we…" The Critic corrected himself. "What am I gonna do without you, Ma-Ti?"

"You will endure. I know you will." The young Indian sighed, and laid his head back down on the grass. "You cannot keep me here, Critic. You must let me go. The needs of the many… outweigh…"

"…the needs of the few," The Critic completed, "or the one."

"I was about to say that, douche…"

"Oh, sorry."

"S'okay," Ma-Ti coughed again, this time sending hunks of reddish phlegm out onto the grass. "I never really had much use for that stupid ring until now. What did you think of my solution, and of me finally kicking ass for once?"

"Ma-Ti…" The Critic breathed. "It was brilliant."

"Critic… I'm sorry about what I said earlier. You are a good friend..." Ma-Ti whispered. He was fading fast now. "If you must remember me... remember this. I have been… and always shall be… your friend."

Ma-Ti attempted to give The Critic one last high-five. It smacked into The Critic's forehead instead, knocking his glasses off.

"The power... is yours…"

With that, Ma-Ti took his last breath. His arm slowly slid down The Critic's face and plopped beside him on the grass. Ma-Ti was gone.

"No…" The Critic said. "No..."

And it was there that The Critic sat for a long time, as the other Awesome-teers stood weeping and shaking their heads in disbelief some ways away. The journey for Malachite's Hand had finally ended, and the entire world was safe for at least another year. But the passing of that danger had taken with it the soul of Ma-Ti, keeper of the Ring of Aeon, Planeteer of Heart, and friend to all living things.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Doug's acting in this scene was phenomenal. I also agree with Spoony's assessment that they earned the _Wrath of Khan _line compared to a certain other movie about robots and explosions...

-Xoanon


	31. Part 7, Chapter 30

**Chapter 30: Oh God, Ma-Ti is Dead**

A short time later, the Awesome-teers gathered on that barren plane for the last time, in order to commemorate the memory of their fallen comrade. A thin funerary offering had been prepared, and the comrades-in-arms had repaired themselves as best they could given the lack of hospitals and good costumes stores in the area. Ma-Ti's earthly remains had been placed in the finest repository available: an empty canister of Quaker Oats, Extra-Fiber Blend. The Critic stepped to the front of the group and started the proceedings as a teary-eyed Sage passed the urn down the line of mourners.

"My friends," he said softly, "we are assembled here today to pay our final respects to the honored dead, the departed Planeteer, Ma-Ti. As per the Indian tradition, he has been cremated. And, since we have no real way of knowing who his next-of-kin are, we have decided to deposit them here, at the scene of his greatest victory, the triumph over Malachite."

Sage carried the canister to The Critic's feet and placed it there, then rejoined his friends solemnly. For a moment all was silent, save for the whistling of the wind and the occasional sniffle from the bereaved. Not an eye present was dry.

"Now, before we get to Ma-Ti's life and accomplishments, we'd like to thank a few people for helping us get this show on the road," The Critic continued. "Todd, thank you for handling the cremation in the most solemn and dignified way possible… even though none of us really want to know how he did it or why he volunteered to do it in the first place."

"Yeah, it's probably best you don't ask…" Todd replied, pocketing his lighter.

"We'd also like to thank Tom, who's kicking off for us today…" The Critic gestured to Tom beside him, who looked much less jovial and much more slouchy than he usually did. "And Paw, for providing us with the musical accompaniment for the ceremony. Good job, you two."

"You're welcome," Paw gestured with his trusty kazoo.

"Now, where to begin…" The Critic mused. He didn't really have anything profound or appropriate to share, considering he hadn't planned that day on directing a funeral. "Okay, look, I'm not too big on funerals, so you'll have to bear with me here."

"Just think of dead puppies, and the words will come," The Chick offered.

"Ok…" The Critic, already sad enough, instead decided to think of all the good times he had shared with Ma-Ti before the latter's untimely demise. Unfortunately, all he could think of were all the times he'd been rude, manipulative, and otherwise dickish to the trusting little beanpole. Still, he had a funeral to conduct. It couldn't do him any possible good to dwell on bad times now. Fighting back the tears welling up in his eyes, he began the oration:

"It should be noted that… Ma-Ti's death takes place in the shadow of a Quaker's smile," he started, the friendly yet creepy face of the Quaker Oats guy giving him some much needed inspiration. "And much like Quaker Oats are ingested to protect and nourish our bodies, Ma-Ti gave his life to protect and nourish our hearts. Just like oatmeal…"

"This is so wrong," Mickey whispered to Tom. "We should have used a Pop Tarts box."

"He would've liked that," Tom replied solemnly.

"…and just like those little rice cakes you get in those health food stores. Y'know, the little stale as shit ones that taste like cardboard... But, uh, I digress. The point is that today, Ma-Ti was our protector, and for that we shall all be eternally grateful."

"Hear hear," Linkara agreed, wiping his streaming eyes with a handkerchief. He was dressed to the nines in a Starfleet admiral's uniform he'd gotten from God-knew-where.

"Now, some people—myself included at one time—say that Ma-Ti was worthless. Some say he was useless. Some say he had no purpose other than to round out an already bloated elemental skill set with an intangible emotional concept. Still others say he wasn't the real Ma-Ti at all, that he was just an angry Indian who really hated Ted Turner..."

Suede bowed his head in silent reverence. The Chick and JewWario embraced tearfully.

"…but regardless of these criticisms, regardless of everything we knew about our dear friend, we cannot let the many accusations leveled at him in life taint his honorable death. Ma-Ti was a noble character, and he did not feel his sacrifice a vain, empty one. And who are we to debate the motives and ethics of someone in a can of oatmeal? I mean, c'mon, that just seems kind of low."

"I will not say 'do not cry', for not all tears are an evil…" Spoony breathed.

"And so, I suppose I can close by repeating to you all the very last words that Ma-Ti said to me: 'the power is yours'." A brief pause. "And he's right. The power is ours. We have the power to make this world whatever we wish it to be, not just what it is. We have the power to change this world for the better, and change it so that we no longer have to worry about evil or madness swallowing us all up when we're not looking. We have the power, and we need to use it wisely, so that we may protect the ones we care about from such a horrible fate."

"Hello." Joe choked. "My name is Inigo Montoya. Ma-Ti is dead. Prepare to cry."

He buried his face in Lupa's flowering shoulder thing. Lupa hugged him back.

"And, regardless of what the world thinks of Ma-Ti, we can always say that we were there when he gave his all to protect us and the world we live in. Each and every one of us will remember until the day they die what he did, and each and every one of us will remember him proudly. And of my old friend—the one that has stuck by me through thick and thin, bad movie after bad movie, shit and lesser shit—I can only say this:"

The Critic, voice breaking slightly, gave his friend the only epigraph he knew.

"Of all the souls I have encountered in my travels… his was most… hearty."

And that was it. That was all that needed to be said.

"Orders, hup!" Linkara's call brought the bereaved to attention.

"Present! Arms!" Backs were straightened, heads were lifted, and swords, spears and a prop wig were drawn as Ma-Ti's ersatz resting place was passed down the line for the final time. Paw started up on the kazoo, and the opening strains of "Amazing Grace" floated out on the breeze, somehow sounding almost like a bagpipe that had been through a compactor. The Critic picked up his deceased friend's urn. Cradling it like a child, he carried it down the gamut of swords. At the end of the line stood the open field, and Ma-Ti's final destiny out amongst the stars.

The Critic walked onto the field. With a final pat, and a kiss, he set the urn down on the lawn. He turned back to Tom, who had already gotten into running position. They were at third down with only ten seconds remaining. It was time to kick a field goal all the way to Heaven. The Critic shouted down the play:

"Red 27! Special Emergency Funeral Run! On two! Hut hut! Hike!"

The Critic held the canister steady as Tom came sprinting up to it. With a mighty kick, he sent it flying over the field, over the roofs of the nearby houses and off into the great unknown. The assembled funeral-goers watched its path, swords still drawn and eyes still shining with tears. The sun's glory briefly obscured its arc for a moment, and after that it was gone. Ma-Ti had been laid to rest.

One by one, the mourners dispersed. There was no talking, no laughter, and no joyousness to be found among them. Instead, each one hung his or her head and left in silence, trundling back to the house in turn. There, they would find food and rest in ample enough qualities to sustain them until they could return to their homes. It was a bittersweet recompense, but it was certainly welcome. Finally, even the steadfast Handsome Tom turned and trekked away, leaving The Critic standing out in that bitter land alone, still looking after the place where Ma-Ti's urn had gone.

He stood there for a very, very long time. In his head there tumbled many conflicting thoughts and emotions; rage, grief, anger, self-pity, fear, and of course unhappiness. Above it all there was an unbreakable sense of futility, the one he usually felt in a much lower dosage amplified to ten times its normal fury, the washed-out tiredness that told him constantly to stop getting up in the morning and die. That was the one feeling he'd never listened to before, because no matter how low his life sunk he never fully believed in it.

But now, The Critic felt like it was the only thing left for him to do, and the only choice left for him to take. Ma-Ti had been right; he was a bastard, a rotten, dirty bastard dipped in cockmuncher chocolate and coated in asshole sprinkles, and topped with a prick cherry. All the misery he'd endured his entire life was his own fault, and all the misery he caused could only be placed on his head. He did nothing, added nothing to other people's lives and contributed nothing to society. There was no reason for him to continue other than to endure perpetual punishment at the hands of fate and powers far beyond his own feeble dominion.

But somehow, amazingly, irritatingly, he'd always refused to submit to the entropy of despair. Nothing stopped him and nothing placated him. He always kept trying, even when he'd had nothing to try for. Because no matter how bad his situation was, no matter what unbreakable line of tragedy and misery stretched out before him, The Critic had always been sure he was at rock bottom, and that there was nowhere for him to go but up.

Well, where was he supposed to go from here?

The Critic looked up. The grey clouds overhead were gone, and for the first time in a long time the sky was clear. He smiled weakly. The power was his. He knew. And he would try his best to figure out just where he was going to go from here. He had to do it. He would do it. For himself.

And for Ma-Ti.

He turned and walked slowly back to the house, humming "Amazing Grace" to himself as he went.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** It's not over yet. You know it's not this time. The epilogue actually has a purpose here.

-Xoanon


	32. Epilogue

**Epilogue: Four Times a Conclusion**

_May 1, 2011_

_Dear Journal, _

_I feel better today. Not by much, but better. We're doing the shooting_ _for fucking _Jaws: The Revenge _this week—good God what a stupid movie! I can't believe people were actually paid to make this piece of crap! It's watchable, I guess, if you can consider watching a movie through several sheets of lead a good use of your time and energy. At any rate, the review's probably not going to be anything spectacular. _

_I've been thinking a lot about what happened a few weeks ago. In fact, I guess I can probably say I haven't stopped thinking about it at all. After Ma-Ti's funeral, we all pretty much went our separate ways. I haven't spoken to anyone since. We never did find the gauntlet, or Aeon's ring. I figure they both must have been vaporized along with Malachite. None of us have said anything about the gauntlet or the game to anyone else. Chances are, after what we've witnessed, the only outcome of telling somebody would probably be a one-way ticket to the nuthouse, and I'm not going back there again. The food sucks. _

_But yeah, I can safely say everything's gone back to normal, or at least whatever passes for normal in this fucked up world of mine. I'm doing reviews again, the same old crap I shovel day in and day out for dirty internet money. Chuck Jaffers hasn't come around to seek revenge on any of us. That's a huge relief. I wonder what happened to him. I haven't heard anything on the news, other than something about a hunk of space garbage de-orbiting over Australia. _

_I can't help but feel that Ma-Ti's death lingers on in their hearts like it lingers on in mine, the pain and guilt welling up when they least expect it. At least I hope it does. C'mon, dude saved the fucking world! But whatever the case is with them, at least I know where I stand. The pain hit pretty hard, and even now it still does. I can still remember the time I found that last cup of Starbucks coffee he got me sitting on the kitchen counter. I cried for three hours straight. It was good coffee. Cold coffee, but still good._

_I've never really faced death before, Journal. Most of the time as a kid whenever the issue came up I just plugged my fingers in my ears and started screaming as loud as humanly possible to drown out the conversation. It just scares the holy hell out of me. But I've never faced death like this. I mean, I've cheated death lots of times, kicked it right in the groin and shot it in the face when it was lying disabled on the floor. But now that someone I care about is gone, it just feels like it'll be that much harder for me to cope the next time the Grim Reaper decides to pay me a painful visit. I can't help but feel my mortality bearing down on me, my mortality and the mortality of the people closest to me. _

_Sincerely, Doug_

The Critic put his pen down. He set the journal aside. He was still thinking about whether or not to add a postscript. He wasn't sure what he would say in his postscript yet. Figuring that it would come later, he pushed the pen back into the pen mug on his dresser and lay back down on the bed.

Things weren't really back to normal, he thought. With Ma-Ti's dead things wouldn't be normal again for a long time. That little pop tart had been his responsibility, and his friend. He wouldn't just get over it quickly no matter how many entries he wrote in his journal. But eventually, maybe things would get better. Maybe all he had to do was just ride it out, and then things would be okay again, or at least tolerable.

_"Maaaa-tiiiiii—"_

"GAAAAAAH!" The Critic screamed. Linkara, having stood unnoticed in The Critic's bedroom for the past three weeks, had suddenly begun singing for no reason.

"AAAAAAH!" Linkara screamed back, surprised at The Critic's scream.

"AAAAAAH!" The Critic screamed at Linkara's scream.

"AAAAAAH!"

"AAAAAAH!"

"AAAAAAH!"

"...AAAAAAH!"

"AAAAAAH!"

"What the hell are you still doing here, Lewis?" The Critic shouted. "Shouldn't you be back up in Minnesota by now?"

"Eh, I've got somebody covering for me," Linkara waved, probably referring to his hologram clone or some nonsense. "Besides, I'm not leaving until I get my song!"

"Never!"

"Oh come on, just one song! That's all I ask!"

"Get the hell out of my house!"

"You're telling me you can't afford me one song? I didn't even get a story arc!"

The Critic sighed. "Fine. If it'll get you out of here, one song."

"Thank you." Linkara cleared his throat mightily, and then the song came, in the key of "off", to the tune of "Amazing Grace":

_"Maaaa-tiiiiiii, Ma-ha-tiiiiiiii_

_How great was heeee,_

_Tha-at saaaaved a geeek liiike meeeeee…?"_

The Critic sat there as Linkara belted out one of the greatest funeral tunes of all time, thinking about the times he and Ma-Ti had shared together: the _Captain Planet _review, the brawl with the Nerd, even Kickassia. It had all been golden, and it was all he had left now to remember him by. For some reason, the pictures in his mind were surprisingly clear, almost as if he could reach out and touch them. Then The Critic noticed Linkara dangling them in front of his head on pieces of string.

"Linkara, knock it off!"

"What? I brought the sad montage pictures with me _I haaaaaaaad no heaaaaaart,_

_But nooooow I dooooo_

_All tha-haaanks tooooo Maaa-tiiiiii…"_

And with that, the song ended, and the pictures Linkara had drifted off back into his coat pocket. He stood there beaming, looking very pleased with himself and his singing ability.

"There, wasn't that pretty?" he asked.

The Critic glared at Linkara.

"Right. My work here is done," Linkara started toward the door. The Critic, although he was unwilling to keep the portly comic geek around any longer than necessary, felt the need to ask him something.

"Linkara, do you ever think we'll see Ma-Ti again?" he said.

"Well, he's dead. I don't think they've discovered a cure for that yet," Linkara replied.

"But isn't there any hope?"

"There was never much hope, Critic. Only a fool's hope… Unless you were out looking for the _Necronomicon_ or something, but c'mon, that's not gonna happen…"

"The what?"

"Y'know, the _Necronomicon_, the book of the dead, said to be able to bring the dead back to life and a whole bunch of other stuff…"

"_Necronomicon_, huh…?" The Critic began nodding his head serenely. The sly look was back in his eye again. Linkara noticed it, and begun to wish he'd left earlier, preferably after the "only a fool's hope" line.

"Hey hey, let's not get carried away here…" he said hastily. "It's not real, it's just a legend—"

"Legend, huh…?"

"And besides, most people don't even know if it exists—"

"They don't know, huh…?"

"And don't come calling on us again! Nobody is going to go along with you on this one! We're all adventured out! This was the last time! Honest! I mean, come on Critic! Who are you possibly going to find to come along with you on this random quest for an apocryphal book that may or may not even exist?"

The Critic thought for a moment, the sly look momentarily disappearing from his eyes and eyebrows. Linkara was right. Nobody on Channel Awesome would probably take him up on another quest, even if it were for something as awesomely cool as a book that brought people back to life. Then again, no one said he had to hire from the site…

The sly look returned.

"I'll think of something."

And just like that, The Nostalgia Critic was back in business.

* * *

The next morning, deep within the no-longer-haunted nature preserve, Chester A. Bum was opening his mail. Or rather, the mail he had managed to pilfer from the mailbox when the mail carrier hadn't been looking. It was so nice to get letters from people he didn't know and had no intention of writing back to.

That morning, however, there was a parcel addressed specifically to him. There was no return address, or even correct postage. It simply said "to the Bum". Chester opened it and read the small insert within. A huge, happy grin spread all over his ash-coated face.

"OH MY GOD I WON A CAR!"

And so the search for the _Necronomicon _began.

* * *

Where was he now?

He remembered light. A bright, painful light. And then nothing. He felt tired. Weak. He felt... empty.

Very slowly, his senses returned to him one by one. He was sitting slumped over a wooden table, his head touching the tabletop. He was indoors, in a domicile of some kind, one near a road. He could hear the gentle thudding of cars passing by. He smelled... coffee? Or perhaps it was herbal tea. There was nothing but darkness all around him...

No... wait. There was light. It emanated from the soft hanging lamps up above. They were slowly getting brighter. A diner slowly came into view. It was empty. There were at least eight tables cluttered around the main floor, three to four chairs set around them. Across the room there was a front counter with a cash register, coffee maker, blender, baskets of muffins and fresh fruit, and other arranged edibles. There was sign on the wall. Written on it were the words:

"ALL AROUND CAFÉ"

Strange, he thought as he sat up slowly. His head pounded like he possessed a bad hangover. He was still in the mortal world, or so it seemed. At the climax of the battle he was sure he was doomed. The little Indian boy had managed to completely overpower his magic with that damnable magnetized ring of his. His death would have been the end of everything he'd worked for, along with a rather painful eternal stay in the lower depths of the underworld. He'd managed to avoid that, at least.

Now, his primary motive was revenge against those fools that had challenged him in the first place. His time in this world was not over. In fact, it was just beginning. This was only a temporary setback. He would trek back to Chicago and regain his lost Hand. And soon, very soon, he would—

"Hey you!"

A hard hand slapped the back of his head. Through the stinging pain, Malachite turned to look at whoever was yelling at him. It was a cross middle-aged woman with glasses, an apron tied tight around her midsection. She was staring at him with an expression that said "Well? Aren't you going to apologize for yourself?"

"No napping on the job," she said sternly. "We've been expecting you for more than two weeks now, and we're not going to have you slacking off on your first day!"

She'd been expecting him? For what? Tea and cookies?

"Well, don't just sit there! You've got work to do!"

Work for her? Why?

The woman stepped away before he could ask any questions, back to the depths of the kitchen she'd apparently crawled out of. Malachite got up from the table slowly, head still hurting like a million hammer parties were being thrown inside it. He had no time to parlay with this loathsome creature, or to complete any of the pointless tasks she apparently had in store for him. He had more important work to do.

He made his way to the front door. Opening it, he stepped out into the night. When he ruled the world, he thought, he would make sure this place ended in fire.

There was a bright flash of energy. Malachite was thrown backward from the outdoors and back into the diner. He landed on the oak floor with a thud. Seeing red, he leapt up to witness a swirling energy vortex blocking his path. So, this woman was a witch looking to score free labor off a denigrated fellow mage, was she? Well, rest assured, he would not be in her service for much longer.

His staff was missing. No matter. It would take but one simple spell to rid himself of this nuisance. He could afford the drain on his life force if it mean the continuation of his mission. He delivered a palm strike to the swirling vortex in front of him meant to cast a dissipation spell. Nothing happened. He tried the same spell again, and again. Each time there was no effect.

Desperate, he tried to simply sprint out the door. The vortex refused his escape. He tried again. The vortex threw him back in. After several tries, he gave up. The woman returned as he sat panting on the floor. He looked up at her hatefully.

"Ah, so glad you decided to stay!" she said cheerily. "Here's your apron."

A white apron fluttered into his lap. He held it up, disgusted.

"You can stay in the back of the kitchen. Your hours are nine-thirty to four. Understand?"

He sighed. "Yes."

"Good." She turned and left, leaving Malachite alone to ponder aghast at the scenario he found himself in. How was this possible, he thought. How was his power suddenly gone? Why was he imprisoned in this fortress of lies and muffins? How could this be?

He turned to face the window. He froze. There was a lit billboard outside, a welcome sign to a town somewhere near here. It had a picture of a talking cow wearing bright blue overhauls and a straw hat on it. The cow was saying, in bright red cursive letters:

_"WELCOME TO PLEASANT PRAIRIE, WISCONSIN! A PLACE YOU'LL NEVER WANT TO LEAVE!"_

A barrier.

That was it.

It was a magical barrier erected around the entire café.

And his powers were gone.

Completely, and utterly gone.

He was trapped here.

Oh crap.

* * *

He walked briskly over the deserted field. His sensors clicked on and off in his head, telling him everything: temperature, spectral analysis, moisture content, dust content, heat signatures, bio-scans, and much more. He ignored all of them, sifting through the data until he found what he was looking for. Magic content scan: 80% thaumate concentration, emanating from…

There. The storm drain. He bent down to gaze inside it. There was nothing within. The prize was long gone. He grimaced. They'd gotten to it already. Damn them. Damn them all.

He stood back up and turned to leave. The search had been fruitless. He'd tracked them to this location for absolutely nothing. It made him angry. Very angry. He wanted to destroy something just to feel right again. He wanted to destroy…

Suddenly, he saw something in the dirt nearby. It was a grey shapeless lump in the gravel. He walked toward it. His hand reached out for it, turning it over in the dirt. It was a glove, a slightly damaged glove. A gauntlet. There was an emerald-like jewel pasted to it.

He saw the jewel. A savage grin spread slowly over his emotionless face. He'd found it.

Excellent.

He laughed. It was a cold, auto-corrected, pitch-perfect laugh. He laughed for a very long time. The gauntlet was his now his, and he would do with it as he pleased.

This was going to be fun.

* * *

**The End**

**...**

**...**

**The Nostalgia Critic and the TGWTG Team will return—**

**To explore strange new backdrops,**

**To seek out new cameos and stretch the boundaries of credibility,**

**To Boldly Flee where no one has fled before.**

**Winter 2012**

**...**

**…ish?**

* * *

**Author's Notes: **I have to say, I'm pleased with how this one turned out. To all those who gave me a review: Cookie VanDeKamp, Mr. Thumbsup, IHeart2896, Hyena42, ChibiFoxAI, RandomNumbers523156, and Guest, _muchas, muchas gracias._ You guys are the reason I write these adaptations, and it does me good to hear that you like them so much.

As promised above, look for the adaptation of _To Boldly Flee_ heading your way in a couple of months. Apparently, this is going to be the most epic one yet, as well as the last "big" anniversary special for TGWTG, which means I'll have some free time come 2013. Perhaps the smaller specials won't warrant adapting, so I'll be free to give up some of my own offerings. If not, who knows? I'll be sure to think of something.

Thanks for reading. I'll see you... out there.

-Xoanon


End file.
